PEMBERTON 


14  Jlag  |Cmttt 

Jfab*  you  enfogcb 
and  obiaiu 


^ 

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Readers  Club  and 


141 


THE    GARDEN    OF   SWORDS 


By  the  Same  Author 


KRONSTADT. 
A  PURITAN'S  WIFE. 
THE  IMPREGNABLE  CITY. 
THE  SEA  WOLVES. 
THE  IRON  PIRATE. 
THE  LITTLE  HUGUENOT. 


v? 


"  Into  the  death-pit  Lefort  rode." 


THE 

GARDEN  OF  SWORDS 


BY 


MAX    PEMBERTON 

Author  of 

"KRONSTADT,"  "THE  IRON  PIRATE,"  "THE  LITTLE  HUGUENOT, 
"A  PURITAN'S  WIFE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   AND    COMPANY 
1899 


Copyright,  1898 
Br  MAX  PEMBERTON 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,   CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


Sickle  and  reaper  and  harvest  of  sorrow  ; 

Heavy  the  wagons  that  gather  the  dead ; 
Let  there  be  dirge  for  the  sun  of  the  morrow! 

God  is  the  gleaner  on  fields  ye  have  fled! 


CONTENTS 

•Book  I 

MAN  AND  WIFE 

CHAPTER  rA.CH 

1.    PERE  BONOT  READS  THE  "COURRIER"  .     .  i 

II.    AT  THE  PLACE  KLEBER      ......  10 

III.  "A  LOOMING  BASTION"     ......  25 

IV.  AT  THE  CHALET  OF  THE  NIEDERWALD  .     .  33 
V.    THE  HERALD  OF  THE  STORM  .....  49 

VI.    THE  LAST  DAY  OF  JULY    ......  56 

VII.    "THOSE  OTHERS"     ........  67 

VIII.    OVER  THE  HEARTS  OF  FRANCE      ....  83 

IX.    THE  FUGITIVE       .........  90 

X.    WAITING      ...........  102 

XI.    THE  HUSSARS  ARE  AT  GUNSTETT       .     .     .  108 


II 

BATTLE 

XII.    THE  BLOOD-RED  DAY  OF  WORTH    .     .     .  115 

XIII.    THE  DEATH  RIDE     ........  131 

XIV.    NIGHT  ............  148 

XV.    A  BIVOUAC  OF  DRAGOONS      .....  162 

XVI.    THE  PROMISE  ..........  166 

XVII.    THE  CITY  OF  THE  GOLDEN  MISTS  .     .     .  176 


Vlll 


Contents 


III 


THE  SIEGE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  THE  FIRST  DAYS  ........  191 

XIX.  A  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW  .....  201 

XX.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TERROR      .     .  211 

XXI.  THE  RUE  DE  I/ARC-EN-CIEL   ....  220 

XXII.  "LA  PAUVRE"      ........  239 

XXIII.  THE  NIGHT  OF  TRUCE  ......  248 

XXIV.  AN  ULTIMATUM    .      •     ......  260 

XXV.  CONFESSION       .........  268 

XXVI.  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  WINDOW  ....  274 

XXVII.  ACCUSATION     .........  287 

XXVIII.  "  IF  STRASBURG  FALLS"      .....  297 

XXIX.  THE  LETTER    .........  307 

XXX.  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  LAROCHE    .     .     .     .  313 

XXXI.  "THERE  is  NIGHT  IN  THE  HILLS"  .     .  324 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  Into  the  death-pit  Lefort  rode  "...  Frontispiece 

"  Vouchsafed  such  particulars  of  the  wed- 
ding as  he  found  to  be  good"  .  .  .  Facing  page  i 
"  The  Lancers  put  their  horses  to  a  brisk 

trot" „  ,,24 

"There  were  many  soldiers  in  the  cafe"  .  ,,  ,,  26 
"  «  To  the  news  from  Paris  ! '  he  cried  "  .  ,,  ,,  30 
"Turned  her  head  to  see  a  little  old  man 

on  a  great  grey  horse" ,,  ,,68 

"  Fired  wildly  on  the  stooping  figure  before 

him" ,,  „  81 

"  He  came  at  sunset,  galloping  up  the  high 

road" ,,  ,,89 

"  '  The  Prussians  are  in  the  town  !  *  "  .  .  „  ,,114 
"  Sitting  there  .  .  .  with  that  old  fire-eater 

Captain  Quirat  by  his  side"  ...  ,,  ,,  140 
"The  Turcos  fell  in  heaps  before  the 

arbour" ,,  ,,150 

"  Here  the  story  of  the  flight  was  to  be  read  "  ,,  ,,  179 
"  She  shrank  back  terrified  into  the  porch"  ,,  ,,  226 
"  The  Frenchman  .  .  .  reeled  back  across 

the  table " ,,  ,,  267 

"  Savage  men  brandishing  knives  and 

swords" ,,  ,,  286 

"  She  stood  white-faced  and  mute  against 

the  wall  " „         ,,     296 


Vouchsafed  such  particulars  of  the  wedding  as  he 
found  to  be  good." 


The  Garden  of  Swords 


BOOK  I 
Man  and  Wife 


CHAPTER   I 

PERE  BONOT  READS  THE  "  COURRIER  " 

OLD  Pere  Bonot,  sunning  himself  before  the  doors 
of  a  cafe  by  the  minster,  held  the  Courrier  du 
Bas-Rhin  in  his  hand,  and  vouchsafed  to  Rosen- 
bad,  the  brewer,  and  to  Hummel,  the  vintner,  such 
particulars  of  the  forthcoming  wedding  as  he  found 
to  be  good.  A  glass  of  coffee  stood  at  Pere 
Bonot's  elbow ;  his  blue  spectacles  rested  high 
upon  a  forehead  where  no  wrinkles  sat ;  the 
smoke  from  his  cigarette  hung  in  little  white 
clouds  about  his  iron-grey  hair.  He  sat  before 
the  great  cathedral  of  Strasburg ;  but  the  paper 
and  its  words  carried  him  away  to  a  little  village 
of  the  mountains  where,  forty  years  ago,  he  had 
knelt  at  the  altar  with  Henriette  at  his  side,  and 
an  old  priest  had  blessed  him,  and  he  had  gone 
out  to  the  sunny  vineyards,  hand  in  hand  with 


2  The  Garden  of  Swords 

his  girl-wife  to  their  home  in  a  forest  of  the 
Vosges.  There  were  tears  in  old  Bonot's  eyes 
when  he  took  up  the  Courrier  again. 

"  Nevertheless,  my  friends,"  said  he,  covering 
his  retreat  with  a  great  show  of  folding  the  paper 
and  setting  his  glasses,  "  nevertheless  —  her  mother 
was  a  Frenchwoman  !  Marry  the  devil  to  a  good 
girl  —  and,  as  the  saying  goes,  there  is  no  more 
devil.  I  remember  Marie  Douay —  twenty,  twenty- 
two  years  ago.  I  saw  her  at  Gorsdorf  with 
Madame  Helene,  a  little  brunette,  always  gay, 
always  laughing  ;  a  bird  to  cage  in  Paris ;  a  bird 
of  the  gardens  and  not  of  the  mountains.  When 
she  married  the  Englishman,  milord  Hamilton, 
who  had  lived  for  two  years  in  the  Broglie  here, 
was  it  for  me  to  be  surprised  ?  Nom  d'un  gail- 
lard,  I  was  not  surprised  at  all.  The  eagle  to 
the  mountains,  the  gold-breast  to  the  cage.  Cer- 
tainly we  were  too  sleepy  for  Marie  Douay.  She 
went  to  London  with  milord  —  et  apres —  " 

He  slapped  the  paper  as  though  all  were  settled  ; 
but  Rosenbad,  the  fat  German  brewer,  took  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth  and  chuckled  with  a  deep 
guttural  note. 

"  The  apres  was  Mademoiselle  Beatrix  —  hein  ?  " 
said  he.  "  There  were  no  more  apres's,  friend 
Bonot  ?  That  is  for  by-and-by  —  when  the  priest 
la-bas  is  forgotten." 


Pere  Bonot  reads  the  "  Courrier  "    3 

Old  Hummel,  the  vintner,  shook  his  head. 

u  These  things  bring  the  white  hairs,"  he 
exclaimed  dolefully ;  "  when  you  are  sixty  you 
should  not  go  to  weddings  or  to  funerals.  I  have 
seven  children,  and  the  priests  are  always  in  my 
house.  Next  week,  the  Abbe  Colot  baptises  my 
tenth  grandchild.  When  I  see  a  lad  at  the  altar 
I  say  to  myself,  l  By-and-by  he  will  drink  his  beer 
at  the  Stadt  Paris,  and  will  be  in  no  hurry  to  go 
home  again.'  I  do  not  wish  to  look  through  the 
window  while  another  man  dances.  If  I  cannot 
dance  myself,  I  will  sit  here  and  forget  the  days 
when  I  could.  Ah  —  that  it  should  be  so  many 
years  ago  !  " 

He  struck  a  mournful  note,  a  discord  upon  that 
sunny  morning  of  July  when  there  was  a  sky  of 
azure  above  the  minster  spire  of  Strasburg,  and 
some  of  the  glory  of  summer  hovered  even  in 
the  well  of  her  narrow  streets.  Old  Pere  Bonot, 
called  back  again  in  thought  to  the  village  of 
the  mountains,  closed  his  eyes  and  listened  to 
the  musical  bells  pealing  now  in  many  a  tower 
and  steeple.  By  here  and  there,  groups  of 
well-dressed  citizens  crossed  the  open  space 
before  the  western  door  of  the  vast  church  and 
passed  from  the  sunshine  to  the  soft  lights  of 
green,  of  red,  of  gold,  of  purple,  which  fell  upon 
the  pavements  of  the  dim,  mysterious  aisles. 


4          The  Garden  of  Swords 

Ever  and  anon,  a  carriage  clattered  over  the 
flags,  and  men  in  gaudy  uniforms,  the  white  and 
silver  of  the  cuirassiers,  the  green  of  the  Em- 
press's dragoons,  the  blue  of  the  lancers,  added 
their  gilt  of  colour  to  the  swelling  throngs.  It 
was  a  soldier's  wedding,  Strasburg  said,  and  you 
must  search  many  a  city  of  Europe  before  you 
would  find  as  pretty  a  bride  as  the  stately 
English  girl  who  went  to  the  altar  that  morning, 
or  a  better  lancer  than  Edmond  Lefort,  who 
was  to  take  Beatrix  Hamilton  to  the  mountains 
presently. 

The  bells  rang  in  the  steeples ;  the  people 
gathered  in  the  minster  square  and  at  the  great 
western  doors  of  the  cathedral.  Many  were 
peasants,  clattering  in  their  sabots,  peasants  come 
down  from  the  vineyards  to  witness  the  marriage 
of  the  grandchild  of  one  whom  they  and  their 
fathers  before  them  had  held  in  honour — that 
servant  of  charity  and  of  love,  Helene,  Countess 
of  Gorsdorf.  Flowers  they  carried  to  scatter 
upon  the  path  which  the  mistress  of  their  affec- 
tions must  tread ;  and  those  that  had  no  flowers 
gave  laughter  and  merry  tongues,  and  it  may 
even  be  a  prayer,  for  the  English  girl  who  was 
Strasburg's  bride  that  day.  And  side  by  side 
with  them  were  the  louts  of  the  hills,  the 
vignerons^  the  moissonneurs,  men  of  field  and 


Pere  Bonot  reads  the  "  Courrier  "    5 

farm  and  orchard,  red-cheeked  all,  with  spotless 
blouses,  and  many  a  ban  moty  and  many  a  whisper 
of  other  marriages  that  might  be  when  the  har- 
vesting was  done.  Such  a  crowd  had  not  gathered 
at  the  church  doors  for  twenty  years,  the  people 
said.  But  then  —  it  was  Madame  Helene's  grand- 
child. 

Old  Pere  Bonot  watched  the  people,  and  the 
smile  came  back  to  his  contented  face. 

"  It  is  forty  years  ago,"  he  said,  "  forty  to  a 
day,  ma  foi.  The  seventh  of  July  — " 

"  Come,  then  — "  interrupted  Hummel,  the 
melancholy  vintner,  "  many  things  will  happen 
to  us  before  the  seventh  of  July,  man  vieux.  The 
day  is  Tuesday,  and  Sunday  was  the  third.  It 
would  be  the  fifth  if  I  can  add  three  and 
two." 

Old  Bonot  assented  grudgingly. 

"  I  married  Henriette  at  Reichshoffen  on  the 
seventh  day  of  July  in  the  year  1830.  To-day  is 
the  fifth  then,  and  the  year  is  1870.  It  was  on 
the  twenty-fifth  day  of  the  month  that  Charles  the 
Tenth  signed  the  five  ordinances  which  cost  him 
his  throne.  On  the  next  day  le  rol  Guillaume 
came  to  the  throne  of  England.  Ah,  mes  enfants^ 
the  things  that  forty  years  can  teach  us,  the  joys 
we  can  forget,  the  griefs  we  can  suffer.  And 
there  is  always  death  —  always,  always  —  " 


6          The  Garden  of  Swords 

He  was  thinking  of  little  Henriette  and  the 
place  where  she  slept  in  the  green  valley  of 
Reichshoffen ;  but  Rosenbad,  the  merry  brewer, 
was  all  eyes  for  the  wedding  and  the  great  throngs 
then  crossing  the  square. 

"  Oh !  but  you  are  gay  this  morning,  old 
Bonot,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  go  and  tell  them  that 
there  is  a  skeleton  for  their  feast  —  the  man  in 
black  who  says  that  the  bell  can  toll  sometimes. 
Is  not  he  a  proper  fellow  to  make  their  wine  sour ! 
And  he  has  children  of  his  own  !  " 

The  vintner  took  up  his  long  glass  of  Munich 
beer,  and  chimed  in  with  his  old  complaint. 

"  I  will  be  as  gay  as  ten  grandchildren  will  let 
me  —  for  the  sake  of  the  little  English  girl. 
Afterwards  I  must  go  home.  Pere  Bonot  shall 
call  for  some  more  beer  and  remember  that  we  are 
Germans  —  " 

He  spoke  jestingly,  but  the  Frenchman  was  up 
in  arms  in  a  moment. 

"  Not  so,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "  I  am  the  ser- 
vant of  my  Emperor,  and  of  no  other.  As  for 
your  beer,  it  is  the  drink  of  louts.  I  give  it  to  my 
pigs.  When  the  King  of  Prussia  is  crowned  in 
the  minster  —  I  will  drink  your  beer  on  that 
day." 

He  hammered  upon  the  table  with  a  blow 
which  shook  the  glasses  and  brought  a  waiter 


Pere  Bonot  reads  the  "  Courrier  "    7 

hurrying  to  the  place.  But  while  his  anger  was 
still  young,  a  great  sound  of  cheering  broke  upon 
their  ears,  and  all  in  the  cafe  stood  up  to  see  a 
great  family  coach,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  staid  grey 
horses,  roll  in  leisured  dignity  across  the  square. 
Within  the  coach  there  sat  an  old  lady  with  hair 
as  white  as  silver,  and  hollowed  cheeks  and  kindly 
blue  eyes,  and  such  a  nobility  of  manner  and  unas- 
sumed  graciousness,  that  all  the  gentlest  gifts  of 
motherhood  seemed  united  in  her. 

"  Wait  —  wait  !  there  is  the  Countess  herself 
with  Mademoiselle  Beatrix  by  her  side.  Sac  a 
papier  !  —  he  is  lucky,  the  lancer.  I  would  even 
forget  that  I  have  seven  —  " 

"  She  has  no  eyes  for  winter,  friend  Hummel. 
They  say  that  the  English  are  an  ugly  nation,  but, 
ma  fol,  there  is  one  to  give  them  the  lie.  And  the 
lancer  —  there  will  be  no  King  of  Prussia  in  Stras- 
burg  while  we  have  men  like  that.  Mon  Dleu  — 
what  shoulders  !  " 

A  tremendous  cheer  greeted  the  three  occupants 
of  the  old-world  coach.  Helene,  Countess  of 
Gorsdorf,  leant  back  upon  the  cushions  of  yellow 
satin,  and  there  were  tears  of  gladness  in  her  eyes. 
Mademoiselle  Beatrix,  as  the  people  called  the 
English  girl,  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  but  timidly  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  officer 
of  lancers  who  sat  before  her,  and  whose  blue 


8          The  Garden  of  Swords 

uniform  and  scarlet  breeches  were  a  feast  of  colour 
in  the  gloom  of  the  cathedral  square.  All  that 
the  peasants  said  of  her  was  admitted  readily  by 
maturer  critics.  A  brunette,  she  had  nevertheless 
the  blue  eyes  of  the  Saxon.  Possessed  of  no  par- 
ticular features  that  made  for  any  style  of  beauty, 
yet  there  was  a  winning  sweetness  of  face  and  of 
expression  which  communicated  itself  instantly, 
and  was  not  to  be  resisted.  And  she  was  Madame 
Helene's  grandchild !  Strasburg  asked  no  more 
even  from  the  wife  of  one  of  the  best  of  her 
soldiers. 

The  carriage  rolled  by ;  the  sun  shone  gener- 
ously upon  the  glittering  habiliments  of  the  lancer, 
and  upon  the  childish  face  of  his  English  wife. 
Madame  Helene's  white  hairs  were  as  threads  of 
silver.  In  the  morning  light,  the  tears  upon  her 
cheek  sparkled  as  drops  of  golden  dew.  They 
were  going  to  leave  her  alone  at  last  —  those 
children  of  hers ;  alone  in  the  great  house,  the 
home  she  had  loved ;  in  the  city  of  her  girlhood 
and  the  beloved  sanctuary  of  maternity.  She  said 
that  God  had  willed  it  so;  and  there  was  a  prayer 
in  her  heart  that  the  years  of  her  loneliness  might 
be  few. 

Old  Pere  Bonot,  standing  at  the  very  edge  of 
the  causeway,  raised  his  hat  as  the  carriage  passed, 
and  when  he  cried  "  God  bless  them  !  "  it  may  be 


Pere  Bonot  reads  the  "  Courrier  "    9 

that  Madame  Helena's  prayer  was  echoed  uncon- 
sciously by  him,  and  that  he  thought  of  a  distant 
valley  in  the  mountains,  and  of  one  who  slept 
there,  and  of  the  precious  years,  so  quick  to  pass, 
when  the  first  and  last  words  of  his  happy  days 
had  been  spoken  by  the  child-wife  who  had  loved 
him. 

"  Henriette  —  Henriette  —  I  remember  always ! " 
So  does  Death  ride  upon  the  coach  of  Life — • 
and  so,  in  that  sunny  city  of  Strasburg,  where  the 
bells  rang  a  merry  note,  and  the  people  feasted, 
and  the  old  cathedral  trembled  to  the  swelling 
notes  of  its  mighty  organ,  were  there  those  who 
thought  of  the  aftermath  of  years  and  of  the  hands 
for  ever  still.  And  this  thought  they  remembered 
at  a  later  day,  so  soon  to  come,  when  the  thunder 
of  the  guns  made  music  for  their  ears,  and  the 

O  * 

priests  who  had  lifted  their  hands  to  bless  the 
living  went  out  to  the  homes  of  the  dying  and 
the  dead. 


CHAPTER   II 

AT    THE    PLACE    KLEBER 

THERE  had  been  a  vast  throng  at  the  cathedral, 
but  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  organist 
had  played  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March"  as 
a  tribute  to  the  English  bride,  and  the  congregation 
streamed  again  through  the  great  western  doors, 
only  the  very  privileged  and  those  who  claimed 
some  kinship  with  Madame  Helene  were  invited 
to  her  great  house  on  the  Place  Kleber. 

"  It  is  a  family  wedding,"  the  old  lady  had  said. 
11 1  have  known  Edmond  so  long  that  he  is  as  my 
own  son.  Beatrix  is  more  than  a  daughter  to  me. 
I  do  not  want  the  whole  world  to  see  my  tears. 
We  will  be  alone  my  children  —  and  I  —  when 
that  '  good-bye'  is  said." 

Such  was  her  resolution,  but  the  heart  prevailing 
over  the  will,  many  persuaded  her  and  claimed 
kinship  with  the  house  of  Gorsdorf;  and  there 
were  others,  portly  canons  from  the  minster, 
sleek  presbyters  from  the  Lutheran  churches, 
officers  of  the  garrison,  the  mayor  of  the  city  — 
even  the  governor,  the  great  General  Uhrich  him- 
self, with  his  splendid  cocked  hat  and  his  dainty 


At  the  Place  Kleber  1 1 

"  imperial,"  and  his  glory  in  the  city  of  Strasburg 
and  her  wondrous  past.  All  these  came  to  felici- 
tate the  young  people;  all  remembered  that  it  was 
a  soldier's  wedding.  The  people  declared  that  an 
army  had  gone  to  the  Place  Kleber.  Lancers  in 
their  light  blue  tunics,  with  a  word  of  regret  for  the 
kurtkas  they  had  lost  last  year;  hussars,  whose 
spurs  clattered  over  the  splendid  parquet  flooring 
of  the  salon ;  cuirassiers,  whose  breastplates  shone 
as  silver ;  officers  of  Turcos  fresh  from  Africa ; 
gunners,  engineers  —  a  very  deputation  from  that 
glorious  army  of  France  in  which,  Beatrix  said,  in 
her  own  pretty  way,  she  had  now  a  place.  Hence- 
forth, all  that  concerned  the  army  of  France  must 
be  dear  to  her.  For  France  had  given  her  Edmond 
—  and  she  was  his  wife. 

The  day  had  been  as  a  day  of  dreams  to  her. 
Now  that  it  was  nearly  done,  and  she  stood  at 
grandmere  Helene's  side  in  the  great  room  of  the 
old  house,  she  had  but  few  memories  of  all  its 
momentous  happenings.  She  knew  not  why  — 
but  yesterday  seemed  as  a  day  of  remote  years. 
She  could  recollect  waking  that  morning  and  hear- 
ing the  voice  of  old  Helene,  who  kissed  her  many 
times,  and  seemed  already  to  be  saying  "good- 
bye." She  remembered  her  clumsiness  when  she 
had  put  on  her  splendid  dress,  and  the  coiffeur 
had  come  to  weave  the  sprays  of  blossom  into  her 


12         The  Garden  of  Swords 

rebellious  hair;  how  her  hands  had  trembled  when 
she  had  clasped  the  diamond  bracelet  which  was 
Edmond's  gift  to  her!  And  afterwards — what  a 
whirl  of  sights  and  sounds  and  of  familiar  faces ! 
"  Felicitations  !  "  All  the  city,  surely,  had  come 
to  the  Place  Kleber  with  that  word  on  its  lips. 

Men  and  women,  friends  and  strangers,  they 
had  striven  one  with  another  to  be  the  first  in 
kindnesses  to  Strasburg's  guest,  the  daughter  of 
Madame  Helene's  daughter,  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
best  of  their  soldiers.  She  asked  herself  if  this 
was  not,  in  one  moment,  the  compensation  for  a 
girlhood  which  had  earned  many  compensations  ; 
for  a  destiny  which  had  bequeathed  to  her  but  a 
fitful  memory  of  her  father's  face,  and  had  left 
her  motherless  when  first  she  had  learned  to  read 
the  book  of  life  through  her  mother's  eyes.  What 
a  pride  of  happiness  that  the  bells  should  ring 
and  the  city  should  feast  for  her  sake  !  She  was 
no  longer  alone  in  the  world,  then.  Ever  the 
words  "  wife,  you  are  his  wife  "  echoed  in  her  ears 
above  the  buzz  of  talk  and  the  noises  of  the 
street  without.  Some  change,  indefinite,  exquisite, 
seemed  wrought  within  her  mind.  She  heard  no 
other  voice  but  this  —  the  voice  of  her  heart  telling 
her  that  the  years  of  girlhood  were  for  ever  passed. 
She  saw  the  future  as  through  a  mist  of  glad  tears. 
The  figures  about  her  were  shadowy  figures  mov- 


At  the  Place  Kleber  13 

ing,  as  it  were,  in  some  room  of  her  dreams. 
Friends  held  her  hand  and  spoke  to  her  of  the 
great  ceremony  in  the  cathedral.  She  answered 
them  ;  yet  knew  not  what  she  said.  They  called 
her  "  Madame  Lefort."  How  odd  it  seemed ! 
"Madame,  Madame  !  "  She  was  Beatrix  Hamilton 
no  more.  The  hour  had  placed  a  great  gulf  be- 
tween her  and  the  old  time.  She  did  not  mourn 
her  girlhood  nor  regret  it. 

Notwithstanding  Madame  Helene's  scruples, 
it  was  a  brilliant  gathering.  All  Strasburg  bore 
witness  to  that.  The  city  made  the  success  of  it 
an  affair  of  its  own,  and  sent  a  guard  of  honour 
to  the  Place  Kleber,  and  the  lancers'  band  to 
play  all  the  afternoon  before  the  great  house. 
Abbes  and  canons,  generals  and  colonels  raised 
their  glasses  and  nodded  their  heads  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  music.  Sleeker  Lutherans  found 
dark  corners  wherein  they  could  anticipate  hunger 
without  observation.  Social  leaders  scanned  the 
bride's  dress  through  critical  glasses,  and  admitted 
that  it  was  tres  hi  en. 

"  Her  father  was  an  English  artist,  hein  ?  She 
has  ideas,  and  they  will  help  her  by-and-by.  If 
she  were  not  so  tall  !  —  how  can  one  be  anything 
but  gauche  with  a  figure  like  that  ?  And  she  wants 
style  ;  certainly,  she  has  a  pretty  gown,  and  that 
is  something." 


14         The  Garden  of  Swords 

The  old  lady  who  spoke,  a  wizened  dame, 
who  had  buried  two  husbands,  raised  her  pince- 
nez  and  appealed  for  assent  to  a  fat  abbe  who 
held  a  glass  of  sparkling  wine  in  his  hand. 
But  the  abbe  answered  her  with  a  perpetual 
smile,  and  a  voice  which  repeated  again  and 
again  — 

"  Ah,  how  pretty  she  is  —  how  pretty  !  " 

Other  men  took  up  her  cause  and  pleaded  it 
with  courage. 

Women  assented  grudgingly,  and  gathered 
together  in  shaded  alcoves  to  remind  each  other 
of  the  mystery  which  had  attended  the  life  of 
her  father,  Sir  Richard  Hamilton.  He  had  been 
a  monster,  as  tradition  said  ;  yet  few  knew  more 
or  could  add  to  the  scant  particulars  which  served 
for  gossip  in  the  salons  of  the  city.  They  loved 
the  suggestion  of  a  scandal  —  as  all  the  world 
loves  it  —  these  jewelled  crones  of  Strasburg,  and 
they  feasted  upon  it  and  found  it  to  be  good, 
and  sought  therein  a  recompense  for  a  beauty 
they  could  but  half  deny,  and  for  a  charm  to 
which  they  would  not  submit. 

Beatrix  herself,  standing  by  her  husband's  side, 
heard  none  of  these  words.  When  she  could 
forget  the  past  and  the  future,  and  remember 
where  she  was  and  what  the  day  meant  to  her, 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  how  many  of  her  friends 


At  the  Place  Kleber  15 

had  come  to  the  old  house  on  the  Place  Kleber. 
Colot,  the  aged  abbe,  who  loved  her  as  a  father  j 
the  merry  General  de  Failly,  who  had  sworn  to 
make  a  little  Frenchwoman  of  her;  pretty  gossip- 
ing little  Therese  Lavencourt,  who  had  schemed 
so  incessantly  to  bring  Edmond  to  Strasburg ; 
Georgine,  the  friend  of  her  girlhood,  who  thought 
so  often  of  the  young  Englishman,  Brandon 
North.  Where  was  Brandon  now,  she  asked  ? 
She  saw  him  alone  near  the  long  windows  of  the 
balcony.  Why  was  he  not  at  Georgine's  side? 
He  had  been  a  year  in  Strasburg  and  yet  had 
found  no  eyes  to  see  how  pretty  Georgine  was. 
That  must  be  her  business  by-and-by  when  she 
had  a  house  of  her  own,  Beatrix  thought.  She 
realised  her  friendship  for  one  of  her  own 
countrymen  in  that  hour.  Great  as  was  the 
kindness  which  these  people  of  Strasburg  showed 
her,  nevertheless  she  was  a  -stranger  among 
them.  The  fifteen  years  of  her  life  she  had 
spent  in  England  had  made  her  an  Englishwoman 
beyond  hope  of  change.  She  loved  French  things, 
yet  did  not  love  her  own  country  the  less  because 
of  them. 

She  beckoned  Brandon  to  her  side,  and  he 
came  with  reluctant  steps.  His  strange  and 
truly  English  dislike  of  any  self-assertion  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  Madame  Helene's  house.  Silently, 


1 6         The  Garden  of  Swords 

in  a  corner  by  the  window,  he  had  listened  to  the 
parrot-like  chatter  of  the  women  and  the  silly 
persiflage  which  passed  among  the  men  for  the 
wit  of  Paris.  When  Beatrix  beckoned  him,  he 
set  down  his  cup  and  crossed  the  room  slowly. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  there  who  wore  a  plain 
black  coat  and  had  no  wealth  of  star  and  ribbon 
to  apologise  for  a  tongue  but  ill-equipped.  He 
came  and  stood  by  her,  with  his  fair  hair 
tumbled  upon  his  forehead  and  his  hands  ill  at 
ease,  and  a  strange,  almost  sardonic  smile  about 
his  lips. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  and  her  splendid  dress  rustled 
as  she  spoke,  "  are  you  the  only  one  —  " 

He  held  her  hand  a  moment  in  his.  An  odour 
of  flowers  and  rare  scents  hovered  about  the  place. 
He  did  not  look  into  her  eyes,  but  knew  that  hers 
were  upon  him. 

"  The  only  one  in  a  black  coat  —  yes  ;  that 's 
my  qualification,  Madame  Lefort." 

"  Madame  Lefort."  How  odd  it  sounded ! 
Yesterday  he  would  have  called  her  Mademoiselle 
Beatrix  as  the  others  did.  He  was  one  of  her 
few  friends.  She  would  not  have  been  cross  if  he 
had  said  "  Beatrix,"  as  sometimes  he  had  done 
when  they  went  picknicking  to  the  woods  above 
Gorsdorf. 

"  You  do  not  congratulate  me,"  she  said,  with- 


At  the  Place  Kleber  17 

drawing  her  hand  quickly.  "  I  don't  believe  you 
were  at  the  church." 

He  turned  and  plucked  a  blossom  of  white 
rose  from  a  vase.  The  petals  were  crumpled  in 
his  hand  and  scattered  upon  the  carpet  while  he 
answered  her. 

"  Of  course  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  if  the  congratulations  of  a  man  in  a  frock  coat 
are  worth  anything.  There  are  so  many  impor- 
tant persons  in  colours  here  that  you  must  excuse 
me  if  I  have  my  doubts."  And  then  he  asked 
suddenly,  u  What  made  you  think  that  I  was  not 
at  the  church  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  to  a  fierce  Turco  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  and  then  said,  as  if  it  were 
a  thing  of  no  importance  — 

"  I  did  not  see  you  there." 

He  continued  to  crumple  the  rose  leaves. 

"  I  was  hidden  by  the  splendour  of  Therese 
Lavencourt  and  of  Colonel  Poittevin.  She  spent 
her  time  saying  her  prayers  and  in  begging  him 
to  stand  upon  a  chair  and  tell  her  the  names  of 
the  generals  in  the  choir.  I  have  learnt  half 
the  scandals  of  Strasburg  this  morning,  and  I 
shall  learn  the  other  half  to-night  when  she 
dances  with  me.  You  know  that  she  is  giving 
a  ball?" 

"  She  was  just  telling  me  so.     She  calls  it  in 

2 


1 8         The  Garden  of  Swords 

my  honour.  As  I  shall  not  be  there,  that  is  very 
good  of  her.  And  I  am  to  dance  in  spirit  —  as  if 
one  could  do  that.  But,  of  course,  she  is  awfully 
kind." 

"To  herself,  undoubtedly.  She  will  dance  into 
heaven  some  day  and  set  the  angels  by  the  ears. 
How  glorious  to  die  to  Strauss's  music  with  a  dim 
suggestion  of  stairs  and  a  conservatory  —  and,  of 
course,  a  partner  waiting.  But  these  things  do 
not  'interest  you  —  now.  You  will  be  at  the 
Niederwald  while  I  am  dressing." 

She  shook  hands  with  old  General  Uhrich,  who 
was  going  back  to  the  citadel,  before  she  answered 
him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  going  to  Gorsdorf,  of  course, 
but  not  to  the  castle.  You  remember  our  picnic 
there,  when  we  had  dinner  in  a  vault  ?  Some 
day  Edmond  will  rebuild  the  house.  We  shall 
stay  at  the  chalet  for  some  time,  and  afterwards 
we  go  on  to  Metz.  I  think  that  I  should  like 
that.  There  is  always  something  eerie  about  a 
place  which  you  can't  get  into  and  can't  get 
out  of." 

tt  A  description  applying  to  a  prison,  I 
imagine." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"When  one  is  in  France  one  must  think  as 
France  does.  I  am  proud  of  Metz  already ;  and, 


At  the  Place  Kleber  19 

of  course,  a  soldier's  wife  should  interest  herself  in 
the  things  that  interest  him." 

"  Especially  when  the  marching  orders  carry 
him  to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix." 

She  laughed  brightly. 

"  We  are  going  to  Paris  in  January,"  she  said. 
"  It  will  be  Mecca  to  me.  Imagine  it,  five  years 
in  France,  and  only  one  week  to  try  on  hats  at 
Aines.  I  tell  Edmond  that  I  am  not  civilised. 
He  owes  it  to  himself  to  start  an  establishment 
on  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  and  a  box  at  the 
opera.  Either  that  or  a  finishing  school  some- 
where near  the  Bois.  '  We  could  spend  our  holi- 
days together  —  when  he  comes  home  from  the 
wars." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  man's  face.  He  looked 
down  upon  her  for  a  moment  and  saw  an  exquisite 
vision  of  lace  and  flowers  and  satin,  and  dark  eyes 
full  of  laughter,  and  cheeks  flushed  with  excite- 
ment, and  a  little  hand  upon  which  a  circle  of 
diamonds  glittered,  and  another  ring  of  plain  gold. 
Never  in  his  life  before  had  he  understood  why 
men  could  die  for  women  ;  but  he  thought  that  he 
understood  it  in  that  instant. 

"You  have  taken  the  wars  into  consideration, 
then  ?  "  he  said. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  strange  look  of  fear 
and  wonder. 


2O         The  Garden  of  Swords 

u  The  wars  —  what  wars  ?  " 

He  passed  it  off  with  a  jest. 

"  The  social  wars,  of  course ;  there  could  be  no 
others." 

She  had  ceased  to  laugh,  and  was  looking  round 
the  room  for  her  husband. 

"  As  if  there  could  be,"  she  said  determinedly. 
"Ask  General  de  Failly.  He  says  that  we  have 
only  to  whisper  and  all  Europe  will  obey.  How 
could  there  be  any  wars  !  " 

It  was  perverse  of  such  an  old  friend  as  Brandon 
—  and  so  like  him  —  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  at 
such  a  time.  The  argument,  nevertheless,  fas- 
cinated her  strangely,  and  she  would  have  con- 
tinued it  had  not  her  husband  come  up  while  the 
words  were  still  upon  her  lips.  He  was  there 
to  tell  her  that  the  train  for  Worth  left  at  half-past 
four. 

"  Ah,  man  vieux"  he  said  gaily  to  Brandon,  "  I 
thought  that  you  had  deserted  us  to-day.  Were 
you  in  the  church,  then  ? " 

"  I  have  just  told  Madame  so." 

"And  you  heard  her  answer  the  bishop  ?  They 
all  heard  it,  Beatrix.  And  the  General  has  sent 
an  escort  of  lancers.  They  are  on  the  Place  now, 
waiting.  We  must  not  keep  them  nor  Guillau- 
mette  at  the  other  end." 

He  spoke  quickly  and  with  unsuppressed  excite- 


At  the  Place  Kleber  21 

ment,  and  in  his  look  there  was  that  deep  and 
unquestioning  affection  which  marriage  may  wring 
for  a  day  even  from  the  worst  of  men.  Dressed 
still  in  his  brilliant  blue  uniform,  with  a  shining 
czapska  in  his  hand  and  his  sword  trailing  upon 
the  polished  floor  of  wood,  Beatrix  thought  that 
in  all  France  there  was  no  man  worthy  to  stand 
by  his  side.  Even  the  touch  of  his  hand  could 
make  her  tremble.  She  looked  into  his  eyes 
and  believed  to  read  therein  the  whole  story  of 
his  love  for  her.  And  she  was  his  wife  —  his 
wife. 

"  I  am  ready,  dearest,"  she  said.  "  I  will  go 
and  change  now  —  and  you  ?  " 

u  I  shall  want  five  minutes,"  he  said  gaily ; 
"after  that  the  triumphal  procession  sets  out." 

She  left  the  room,  unobserved.  The  men 
turned  to  the  buffet. 

"  Shall  we  see  you  this  winter  here  ? "  Lefort 
asked,  while  a  sergeant  filled  him  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne. 

Brandon  answered  evasively. 

"  I  have  no  plans.  I  let  the  weather  make 
them  for  me.  If  it  is  cold  at  Frankfort,  you  may 
hear  of  me  in  Nice.  But  you  —  you  go  to  Paris, 
of  course." 

Lefort  nodded  his  head. 

"  There  will  be  the  manoeuvres  first,  and  after 


22         The  Garden  of  Swords 

that  the  other  manoeuvres  —  at  the  bonnet  shops. 
I  am  hoping  that  we  shall  be  at  Chalons  next 
year.  There  are  too  many  Germans  in  Strasburg, 
you  see  —  and  then,  change  is  good  for  a  bride. 
Beatrix  is  a  stranger,  and  too  much  Vosges  —  but 
you  do  not  drink.  I  am  as  thirsty  as  a  trooper 
out  of  Baden.  And  to-morrow  I  shall  wear  a  grey 
coat.  Sac  a  papier,  that  will  make  me  look  like  a 
German  band." 

He  laughed  as  a  boy  at  the  idea,  and  pledged  the 
other  in  a  second  glass  of  wine. 

"  To  your  health,  my  friend." 

Brandon,  outwardly  the  same  unimpressionable, 
stolid  fellow  that  they  had  always  known  him, 
just  touched  the  rim  of  the  upraised  glass  with  his 
own,  but  he  did  not  say  "  a  ta  sante"  in  his  turn. 
His  thoughts  had  already  left  the  Place  Kleber. 
He  was  thinking  of  that  old  thatched  farmhouse 
in  the  Vosges  mountains  to  which  the  man  at  his 
side  was  about  to  take  Beatrix  Hamilton.  What 
freak  of  destiny  brought  such  a  day  ?  He  did  not 
realise  it  even  then.  Beatrix  married !  The 
words  echoed  in  his  ears  as  a  peal  of  ribald 
laughter.  He  turned  from  the  buffet  and  went  to 
stand  upon  the  balcony,  and  to  look  down  upon 
the  escort  of  lancers  gathered  in  the  square  below. 
The  brilliant  blue  of  their  uniforms,  the  scarlet 
plumes  of  the  czapskas,  the  pennants  of  the  lances, 


At  the  Place  Kleber  23 

the  music  of  bands;  the  glitter,  the  colour,  the 
whirl  of  it  all  were  truly  French.  Yet  this 
bizarre  display  was  for  her  sake,  for  the  sake  of 
little  Beatrix  —  for  the  sake  of  her  who  yesterday 
was  free.  How  distant  the  day  seemed  !  It  had 
become  of  the  past,  irrevocable  now.  He  would 
never  live  yesterday  again.  The  page  was  written 
and  the  book  was  closed. 

He  did  not  enter  the  great  salon  again  nor 
add  himself  to  the  number  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded the  bride  at  the  moment  of  farewell. 
When  grandtnere  Helene  took  Beatrix  in  her  arms, 
he  heard  the  words  she  spoke,  and  they  seemed 
an  echo  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  The  days  will  be  so  long,  so  weary,  my 
dearest  girl,"  she  cried  again  and  again,  while 
the  tears  of  love  fell  fast ;  but  to  Lefort  she  said, 
u  I  am  giving  you  myself — my  child  !  God  bless 
you,  Edmond." 

Brandon  heard  the  words,  yet  did  not  move 
from  his  place  upon  the  balcony.  Others  came 
out  to  stand  with  him,  and  saw  that  the  strange, 
half-cynical  smile  was  still  upon  his  lips.  In  the 
great  square  the  people  began  to  cheer,  the  trum- 
pets to  blare  again.  He  beheld  an  old  family 
coach  drawn  up  before  the  house.  He  watched 
the  excited  guests  who  remembered  vague  tradi- 
tions of  English  weddings  and  scattered  rice  and 


24         The  Garden  of  Swords 

flowers  upon  the  English  bride.  For  a  long 
instant  he  saw  Beatrix  herself  looking  straight 
up  at  him.  Then  the  carnage  rolled  away  to 
the  station ;  the  lancers  put  their  horses  to  a 
brisk  trot.  He  heard  no  sound  but  that  of 
weeping.  The  Countess  was  alone  in  the  deserted 
salon. 

But  Beatrix,  with  her  husband's  hand  held 
fast  by  hers,  was  asking  herself  why  Brandon 
North  had  been  the  only  one  who  had  not  said 
"  good-bye  "  to  her. 


"  The  Lancers  put  their  horses  to  a  brisk  trot." 


CHAPTER   III 

"  A    LOOMING    BASTION  " 

BRANDON  dined  in  his  little  room  above  the  office 
near  the  Porte  des  Pierres;  and  when  dusk  fell 
he  set  out  to  walk  to  the  Contades  and  to  his 
favourite  cafe  there.  The  ball  which  Therese 
Lavencourt  was  to  give  had  no  longer  an  interest 
for  him.  He  sought  to  be  alone  and  to  forget 
the  day. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  he  reached  the  park, 
and  he  remembered,  in  spite  of  himself,  that 
Beatrix  would  be  already  in  the  farmhouse  on 
the  hills  above  the  Sauer.  He  had  not  wished 
to  think  of  it,  and  had  gone  to  the  gardens  that 
friends  might  help  him  to  forget ;  but  when  a 
waiter  had  served  him  with  coffee  and  he  had 
read  the  papers  from  Paris,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  greater  sense  of  solitude  possessed  him 
than  he  had  ever  known  since  he  left  Cambridge 
and  came,  at  his  father's  wish,  to  help  his  father's 
business  in  Strasburg.  One  day  had  changed 
his  view  of  life.  While  she  was  in  the  city,  he 
could  forget  the  reasons  that  kept  him  to  a 


26         The  Garden  of  Swords 

merchant's  desk  and  had  expatriated  him.  He 
could  forget  the  years  of  public-school  life  in  the 
England  he  had  left.  He  could  forget  his  own 
ambitions  buried  in  those  vast  and  dusty  cellars 
of  Frankfort  wherefrom  his  father,  William  North, 
sent  the  Rhine  wine  to  the  courts  of  Europe. 
But  Beatrix  was  in  Strasburg  no  more.  He  would 
not  have  believed  yesterday  that  there  was  such 
a  lonely  place  in  all  the  world. 

There  were  many  soldiers  in  the  cafe  —  lancers 
and  artillerymen,  Turcos  and  zouaves.  A  band 
played,  with  rare  intervals  of  silence,  and  its 
flippant  music  was  an  irritant  to  his  ear.  He 
heard  pretty  women  chattering  nonsense  to  officers 
of  cavalry  whose  wit  reached  no  higher  point  than 
assent  incoherent.  He  beheld  slipshod  and  rolling 
troopers,  and  remembered  the  hussars  in  Germany, 
and  the  strong  hand  which  built  there  a  house 
of  steel  for  a  nation's  safety.  In  such  a  moment 
as  this  he  would  almost  forgive  his  father  because 
he  had  wished  to  make  a  German  of  him.  It  was 
no  glorious  employment  to  sell  so  many  bottles  of 
wine  per  annum ;  no  glorious  employment,  it  is 
true,  for  a  man  who  had  written  decent  Greek 
prose,  and  had  spoken  of  immortal  things  at  the 
Union.  He  would  have  preferred  a  commission 
in  a  cavalry  regiment  at  home  ;  or,  better  still, 
that  liberty  which  ties  a  man  neither  to  city  nor  to 


"  There  were  many  soldiers  in  the  cafe. 


"  A  Looming  Bastion  "         27 

country,  but  sends  him  to  see  and  hear  on  the 
wide  road  of  the  world.  But  his  father  had 
other  views.  "The  stool  that  I  sat  on  should 
not  be  too  high  for  my  son,"  he  said;  and  Brandon 
took  it,  and  found  his  consolation  elsewhere. 

He  was  the  friend  of  Germany  as  much  of 
necessity  as  of  admiration.  The  French,  as  a 
people,  fascinated  him,  yet  won  no  allegiance 
from  him.  His  own  gifts  of  strength  of  will  and 
purpose,  of  method,  of  physical  capability,  were 
just  such  gifts  as  he  found  wanting  in  all  the 
Frenchmen  he  knew.  The  power  to  achieve  by 
thought  and  years,  that  power  which  was  the 
very  heart  of  Germany,  engrossed  him  always. 
He  saw  these  men  of  Strasburg,  and  he  knew 
that  if  ever  the  day  should  come  when  the  hosts 
of  Germany  crossed  the  Rhine,  not  only  a  city 
but  an  empire  and  a  kingdom  would  fall.  There 
were  moments  even  when  the  sordid  nature  of 
his  own  business  made  him  reflect  that  war  would 
not  only  change  the  current  of  his  life  in  a 
day,  but  would  open  up  for  him  those  scenes 
of  humanity  militant  which  had  been  the  study 
of  his  imagination  in  many  a  lonely  hour.  But 
war  now  —  now  that  Beatrix  had  gone  to  the 
Gorsdorf ! 

He  laughed  at  himself  for  thinking  of  it,  and 
turned  again  to  watch  the  unshapely  troopers 


28         The  Garden  of  Swords 

who  slouched  before  the  door  of  the  cafe,  and 
stood  for  all  the  glory  of  the  glorious  army  of 
France.  What  would  war  mean  to  such  men  as 
these  ?  Scorn  of  their  deficiencies  became  almost 
anger  sometimes.  He  had  the  impulse  to  get  up 
and  drill  them  —  to  straighten  them  with  the  flat 
of  a  sword  he  must  borrow. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  cafe  that  he  knew ; 
but  when  he  had  been  there  a  little  while  old 
Pere  Bonot,  the  cigar  merchant,  and  with  him 
Rosenbad,  the  brewer,  came  up  to  his  table, 
and  insisted,  as  was  their  wont,  upon  speaking  of 
the  one  event  which  Strasburg  recognised  that 
day.  He  listened  to  them  in  spite  of  himself. 
A  subtle  fascination  compelled  him  to  join  in 
the  talk. 

"  I  was  at  the  Gare ;  I  saw  her  go,"  said  the 
brewer,  triumphantly.  "  She  sat  upon  the  right 
side ;  he  pulled  down  the  blind.  Donnerwetter 
—  if  it  had  been  this  hand  !  I  would  have  pulled 
down  that  blind  myself — et  vous  savez  —  I  have 
fifty  years !  " 

Old  Bonot  stirred  a  glass  of  coffee  vigorously. 

"  For  myself,"  he  said,  "  the  little  church  in 
the  mountains,  the  village  priest,  and  the  village 
cart.  These  things  are  not  for  every  eye  to  see. 
The  English  are  different.  This  was  the  English 
marriage.  The  Englander  carries  his  boots  on 


"  A  Looming  Bastion  "        29 

the  top  of  his  carriage  —  I  have  seen  them  in 
London.  You  know  London,  Monsieur  ?  Ah, 
what  a  city — what  people  —  and  funerals  every- 
where. I  counted  them  —  one,  two,  twenty  — 
every  day.  And  everyone  so  sad  —  because  of 
the  funerals.  When  I  am  in  London,  I  stop 
at  your,  what  you  say,  Zoho  Square.  It  is  the 
centre  of  your  society.  Ma  foi,  what  a  world  ! 
And  no  one  laughs.  I  have  never  seen  anyone 
laugh  in  London.  It  is  too  big.  You  are  afraid 
to  laugh.  You  must  come  to  France  for  that  — 
to  France  and  the  vineyards.  We  shall  marry 
you  here,  and  you  will  carry  your  boots  on  your 
carriage  —  hein  ?  " 

The  old  man  gabbled  on  merrily,  and  took  the 
cigar  which  Brandon  offered  him. 

"You  English  know  a  cigar,"  he  said,  "but 
your  wines  —  ah,  you  have  no  wines.  This  very 
morning  I  had  a  hundred  of  your  English  cigars 
sent  to  Captain  Lefort.  He  will  smoke  them  on 
the  mountains  when  Madame  is  old  enough  to 
differ  from  him.  There  is  nothing  like  a  good 
cigar  on  the  day  when  you  discover  that  Madame 
has  opinions.  Our  friend  the  Captain  will  learn 
his  lesson  quickly.  You  know  Madame  —  without 
doubt  ?  I  have  seen  her  every  day  since  she  came 
to  Strasburg  five  years  ago.  And  she  has  opinions. 
I  read  them  in  her  eyes.  She  is  not  what  you 


30         The  Garden  of  Swords 

English   call  the   c  maid   of  all   work.'     There   is 
courage,    verve,   the    animation.     She    will   know 

O     '  ' 

how  to   say   1 1   will  not ! '  " 

Brandon  surveyed  him  with  curiosity  and 
amusement.  Rosenbad,  the  brewer,  who  was  no 
philosopher,  resented  his  philosophy. 

"  You  are  gay  again,  old  Bonot,"  said  he.  "  I 
said  that  you  would  be  a  fine  skeleton  for  their 
feast.  You  must  catch  the  last  train  to  Worth 
and  tell  the  Captain  that  he  has  married  a  wife 
who  can  say  '  I  will  not.'  He  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you.  As  for  me,  she  might  say  what  she 
pleased  if  I  were  her  husband." 

"  You,  man  vieux,  you  are  too  fat.  And  in  a 
lancer  tunic,  too  !  Ma  foi,  what  a  spectacle  !  " 

The  brewer  avoided  the  subject  deftly. 

"  They  have  spoiled  our  lancers,"  said  he  ;  "  the 
new  tunic  is  as  ugly  as  the  colour  of  it.  There 
was  something  to  make  a  man  when  they  wore  the 
kurtka.  The  new  coat  is  the  coat  of  the  Prussian; 
do  you  not  think  so,  Monsieur  ?  " 

He  turned  appealingly  to  a  young  sous-lieutenant 
of  lancers,  who  had  come  up  to  the  table  and  called 
for  absinthe.  But  the  lad  scarcely  heard  the 
question. 

"  To  the  news  from  Paris  !  "  he  cried,  raising 
his  glass  excitedly. 

44  There  is  news  from  Paris,  then  —  " 


"  '  To  the  news  from  Paris  ! '  he  cried." 


"  A  Looming  Bastion  "         31 

u  The  best.  They  are  going  to  make  a  new 
king  of  Spain,  and  Leopold  of  Hohenzollern- 
Sigmaringen  is  the  man  they  have  chosen." 

He  spoke  with  an  excitement  characteristic  of 
the  boy  rather  than  the  man.  For  a  moment  the 
significance  of  his  words  was  lost  both  upon  old 
Bonot  and  upon  Rosenbad,  the  brewer.  The 
latter  continued  to  sip  his  beer,  the  former  to 
smoke  his  English  cigar. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  old  Bonot  at  last,  "  and  if 
he  is  the  man,  Monsieur  — 

The  sous-lieutenant  regarded  him  almost  with 
contempt. 

"  Man  Dieu"  he  exclaimed,  "you  do  not  under- 
stand ?  " 

"I  understand  nothing." 

The  lad  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Then  I  cannot  teach  you,"  said  he. 

He  drank  his  absinthe  at  a  draught  and  left  the 
cafe.  Brandon  made  some  good  excuse  and  fol- 
lowed upon  his  heels. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  as  they  stood  together 
for  a  moment  at  the  gate  of  the  gardens,  "  but  you 
are  sure  of  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  Sure  of  it  ?  Absolutely.  It  is  news  from  the 
Chambers — and  it  means  but  one  thing,  Monsieur. 
We  shall  be  in  Berlin  in  a  fortnight." 

"  But  they  may  withdraw  —  " 


32         The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  I  am  going  to  church  to-morrow  to  pray  that 
they  will  not." 

He  pulled  his  cloak  about  his  shoulders  and 
went  swaggering  away.  But  Brandon  returned 
quickly  to  his  house  in  the  Rue  des  Pierres.  It 
was  as  though  a  word  had  put  fire  into  his  veins. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AT    THE    CHALET    OF    THE    NIEDERWALD 

BEATRIX  was  in  the  arbour  of  the  chalet,  filling 
a  bowl  with  the  pink  roses  which  were  the  pride 
of  her  garden,  when  Edmond  came  up  the  road 
from  the  village  of  Elsasshausen  and  held  up  his 
letters  triumphantly.  Ten  days  had  passed  since 
the  bells  of  Strasburg  rang  for  Madame  Helene's 
grandchild.  To  Beatrix  they  had  been  as  an 
unbroken  hour  of  sunshine  and  of  happiness. 
The  hills  and  the  valleys,  the  vineyards  and  farms 
of  that  pastoral  scene  were  in  keeping  with  the 
new  sense  of  rest  and  of  finality  which  had  come 
upon  her  life.  She  wished  for  no  friendship  there, 
save  the  friendship  which  had  been  given  her. 
The  strange  past,  with  its  memories  of  strife 
and  solitude  and  change  unending,  had  been 
obliterated  and  forgotten.  She  had  no  longer  the 
desire  to  return  to  England  or  to  remember  that 
she  was  an  Englishwoman.  A  languorous  indo- 
lence, bred  of  the  mountains,  possessed  her 
as  an  ecstasy.  She  would  have  been  content 
to  hear  that  the  chalet  in  the  woods  above  the 
3 


34         The  Garden  of  Swords 

town  of  Worth  was  to  be  her  home  until 
the  end. 

She  was  in  the  garden  of  the  chalet,  filling 
her  bowl  with  roses,  when  Edmond  returned  with 
the  letters  which  he  had  desired  unceasingly. 
She  could  not  understand  that  state  of  mind 
which  hungered  so  greedily  for  all  the  dry  bones 
of  a  soldier's  gossip.  To  know  that  old  Helene 
was  well,  to  hear  of  her  horse  and  her  dogs  — 
and  of  old  Susanne,  who  had  been  her  mother's 
servant  — that  was  news  enough.  But  to  be  told 
that  the  sun  was  shining,  or  that  Therese  Laven- 
court  had  gone  to  Dieppe,  or  that  Lieutenant 
Jourda  de  Vaux  had  been  seen  on  a  new  charger 
—  what  were  such  things  to  those  who  had  the 
forests  of  the  Vosges  for  their  skyline,  and  in 
the  valleys  below  them  the  trailing  vines  and  the 
white  houses  of  the  villages,  and  the  murmur  of 
brooks,  and  the  sleepy  river  warming  itself  in 
the  glorious  sunshine  of  the  ripened  summer  ? 
She  wished  to  forget  Strasburg.  The  chalet  of 
the  Niederwald,  the  chalet  of  the  pines,  the 
chalet  above  the  old-world  town  of  Worth  —  she 
would  remember  it  always  as  the  guest  house  of 
her  dreams,  the  rose-girt  cradle  of  her  love. 

If  all  this  childish  enthusiasm  of  hers  was 
very  real  to  her,  she  could  not  complain  when 
her  husband  did  not  attain  similar  altitudes  of 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  35 

devotion  to  the  chalet.  The  glitter  and  the 
movement  of  the  cavalry  life  had  become  so 
much  the  mainspring  of  his  thoughts  and  actions, 
that  he  did  not  always  conceal  his  desire  to  fix 
a  day  when  the  hamlet  of  the  Niederwald  should 
become  a  memory  of  their  holiday,  and  his  old 
comrades  of  the  "  sixth  "  should  congratulate  him 
upon  his  return  to  them.  Ready  as  he  was  to 
witness  her  childish  delight  in  the  solitude  of 
the  hills,  yet  he  went  every  day  to  meet  the 
facteur,  who  came  from  Worth  with  the  letters ; 
and  he  read  these  letters  aloud  to  her,  and  dwelt 
again  and  again  upon  every  trivial  word  of  gossip 
that  had  amused  his  brother  officers. 

When  she  ran  to  meet  him  at  the  garden 
gate  on  that  morning  of  the  fifteenth  of  July, 
she  was  glad,  for  his  sake,  to  perceive  that  his 
letter  hunger  had  been  satisfied  unduly.  He 
carried  a  great  white  bundle  in  his  hand,  and 
he  held  it  up  triumphantly  as  a  proud  and  well- 
earned  possession.  She  remembered  that  day 
long  afterwards  —  the  sunshine  on  the  woods,  the 
white  villages  dotting  the  valley,  the  figure  of 
her  husband  with  his  Tyrol  hat  and  his  knicker- 
bocker  suit.  He  had  bought  the  Norfolk  jacket 
in  London  as  a  compliment  to  her,  and  he  called 
it  a  "  Prince  de  Galles."  But  it  suited  his  fine 
figure  to  perfection  ;  and  there  was  laughter  in 


36         The  Garden  of  Swords 

his  eyes  and  the  bronze  of  the  sun  upon  his 
cheeks,  when  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed 
her  many  times  as  a  prelude  to  his  news. 

"  Again,  ma  cb'erle  —  again  for  your  letter  — 
two  for  my  letters.  Wait,  the  Colonel  writes 
himself,  and  Laroche  and  Giraud  —  and  Bocheron; 
you  know  Bocheron,  he  is  a  sous-lieutenant  — 
and  Bouillie,  he  is  the  Capitaine  Tresorier — and 
Gaudet,  he  is  our  Porte  Etendard.  Sac  a  papier  ! 
I  shall  have  something  to  read  for  a  week." 

He  gabbled  on,  full  of  the  excitement  of  the 
news  anticipated  and  of  the  goodwill  toward  him 
to  which  the  letters  bore  witness.  She  would 
find  no  cause  of  complaint  in  that,  but  was  full 
of  proposals  for  their  day  and  its  delights. 

"You  can  read  them  as  we  go,"  she  said, 
holding  his  hand  still  and  leading  him  toward 
the  low  door  of  the  house.  "  I  have  told  Jacob 
to  have  the  pony  ready  at  ten  o'clock.  We  shall 
be  at  the  Niederbronn  by  twelve,  and  you  will 
be  hungry.  But  we  can  breakfast  in  the  wood, 
and  that  will  be  jolly.  If  one  could  always 
breakfast  in  a  wood  —  upon  pate  de  foie-gras  and 
strawberries.  To  be  Phyllis  always  —  with  the 
last  new  novel,  and  a  husband  to  cut  the  leaves. 
There  's  the  ideal  life  for  you." 

He  nodded  his  head  and  pressed  her  arm 
affectionately.  The  letter  which  he  read  carried 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  37 

him  back  already  in  thought  to  Strasburg  and 
his  comrades. 

"  Listen,"  he  said ;  "  old  Tripard  is  furious 
about  the  new  tunics.  He  is  petitioning  for  the 
kurtka  again  and  the  old  colours.  They  will 
match  your  eyes,  Beatrix.  We  are  to  have  the 
jonquille  collars  and  the  white  cloaks  with  capes 
and  sleeves.  They  are  all  right,  but  the  people 
at  Paris  must  give  us  back  the  kurtka.  I  do 
not  want  to  look  like  a  Prussian — mol.  And 
the  old  coat  was  more  comfortable.  These  tunics 
are  for  policemen.  The  regiment  will  not  be  the 
same  in  them.  How  can  you  remember  Jena 
in  a  tunic  made  for  a  sergent  de  vllle  ?  They 
are  spoiling  us,  and  they  will  find  it  out  when 
the  day  comes." 

She  heard  his  complaint  and  laughed  at  it. 
Out  there  in  the  freshness  of  the  garden,  this 
talk  of  coat  and  cape  was  as  some  echo  of  a  for- 
gotten voice.  She  had  eyes  only  for  the  green  of 
the  woods  and  the  great  red  roses. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  philosophically,  "  what  does  it 
matter,  Edmond,  and  who  wants  to  remember 
anything  at  the  Niederwald  ?  Here  is  a  Gloire 
de  Dijon  which  is  worth  all  the  tunics  in  France. 
We  will  remember  things  when  the  roses  fade. 
There  is  always  winter  for  memories.  But  July 
—  and  the  mountains  !  " 


38         The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  took  a  bud  of  a  deep  scarlet  hue  from  her 
bowl  and  pinned  it  in  his  coat.  The  flush  of  a 
young  girl's  health  was  upon  the  face  which  looked 
up  at  his  own  above  the  letter  he  was  reading. 
He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  and  forgave  her 
because  she  did  not  condemn  the  tunic. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  it  does  not  matter ;  but 
then  tradition  is  a  good  deal.  It  is  tradition  in  the 
army  which  enables  one  man  to  kill  ten  ;  ma  foi^ 
if  you  do  away  with  tradition,  Beatrix  — " 

"  The  ten  will  live.  Happy  ten !  And  we 
are  forgetting  the  sunshine  to  talk  about  them. 
What  prodigals  !  " 

She  turned  toward  the  chalet  with  the  bowl  in 
her  arms.  He  followed  her  with  blind  steps  read- 
ing his  letters  as  he  went,  and  communicating  their 
intelligence  generously. 

"  The  Chevalier  is  still  at  Trouville ;  he  says 
the  gout  is  no  better.  I  shall  have  to  send  him 
to  England  to  try  port  wine.  We  are  to  see  him 
in  Paris  when  he  is  well  enough  to  bear  the 
journey.  Pauvre  papa!  I  would  wager  a  Napo- 
leon that  he  was  at  the  Etablissement  last  night. 
There  is  nothing  like  the  valtz  a  trois  temps  for 
his  complaint.  You  must  dance  with  my  father 
some  day,  Beatrix,  and  say  that  he  is  splendid. 
When  you  do  that,  you  will  forgive  him  for  his 
one  day  in  Strasburg." 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  39 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  with  a  little  show  of 
dignity.  "  I  am  sure  he  must  .have  been  very  ill." 

" Du  tout"  he  said,  "  he  has  never  known  a 
day's  illness  in  his  life,  though  he  calls  himself  a 
chronic  invalid.  There  is  not  such  a  lazy  man  in 
France.  He  would  not  cross  the  street  to  save 
our  country.  You  will  never,  change  him.  But 
he  will  love  you  when  he  knows  you  well,  as 
much  —  as  much  as  I  do!" 

"  As  much  —  your  father  !  " 

He  laughed  and  drew  her  toward  him,  crushing 
the  letter  and  spilling  the  water  from  the  bowl. 

u  Impossible,"  he  said.  "  I  forget  what  I  am 
saying ;  not  one  half,  one  quarter,  one  hundredth 
part,  cberie.  There  can  be  no  love  like  mine  for 
little  Beatrix." 

He  had  been  annoyed  that  the  Chevalier  Lefort, 
his  father,  had  declined  the  journey  to  Strasburg 
until  the  last  moment,  for  this  seemed  to  put  some 
shadow  of  a  slight  upon  his  little  wife.  But  the 
Chevalier,  who  did  not  by  any  means  welcome 
an  English  girl  to  his  house,  was  notoriously  the 
laziest  man  in  France.  He  had  written  his  ex- 
cuses regularly  from  the  deck  of  his  yacht  Le 
Cygne  pleading  illness,  the  unfailing  refuge  of  his 
indolence.  There  were  other  reasons  on  the  yacht, 
less  creditable  and  by  no  means  to  be  presented 
to  Beatrix.  Edmond  guessed  those  reasons,  and 


4O         The  Garden  of  Swords 

found  solace  in   the  generous   cheques  which  were 
the  Chevalier's  atoaement. 

"  You  will  like  my  father,"  he  said  to  her, 
"you  will  forgive  him  as  I  do." 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  could  forgive 
anyone  at  the  Niederwald  —  even  you,  dearest, 
for  reading  your  ten  letters  when  the  pony  is 
waiting." 

She  escaped  his  caress,  and  ran  up  the  stairs 
lightly  to  set  her  hair  straight  and  to  put  her 
roses  in  fresh  water.  She  did  not  see  that  he 
had  not  her  pleasure  in  the  woods  of  Niederbronn, 
but  hungered  still  for  his  comrades'  letters  and 
their  news  of  his  regiment.  He  had  not  heard 
a  man's  voice  for  ten  days ;  peasants  did  not 
interest  him.  He  could  not  tell  one  flower  from 
another.  He  had  no  eye  for  the  colour  of  glade 
and  thicket.  When  he  remembered  that  another 
ten  days  must  pass  before  they  left  the  chalet,  he 
was  even  tempted  to  wish  that  he  had  chosen  a 
city  for  his  holiday.  But  of  this  he  spoke  no 
word  to  her.  A  sense  of  self-sacrifice  pleased 
him.  Her  tenderness  was  a  thing  precious  to 
see  and  to  possess. 

He  brushed  the  "  Prince  de  Galles,"  and  was 
quite  ready  for  her  when  she  came  singing  down 
the  stairs,  and  he  helped  her  up  to  the  driver's  seat. 
She  drove  so  badly,  and  "  Apollo,"  surely,  was 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  41 

the  ugliest  pony  in  the  Vosges.  He  said  that  risk 
was  a  thing  a  soldier  should  face  for  love  of  it ; 
and  declared  that  she  would  lead  a  charge  superbly. 
The  shady  road  through  the  mountains,  the  deli- 
cious wooded  glades,  the  little  white  farmhouses, 
the  fresh  green  heaths  were  for  him  so  many  items 
from  a  soldier's  map.  Some  day  the  armies  of 
France  would  cross  the  Vosges  and  enter  Baden 
beyond  the  frontier.  He  talked  of  it  always,  even 
upon  that  early  day  of  his  happiness,  when  Beatrix 
drove  him  to  the  picnic  in  the  thickets  of  the 
Niederbronn. 

"What  a  road  for  light  cavalry,"  he  said,  again 
and  again ;  "  with  Pfalzburg  at  your  back  and 
Strasburg  for  your  base,  what  a  road  to  Berlin  ! 
We  shall  ride  this  road  some  day,  cb/riey  and  I 
shall  show  my  comrades  the  old  farmhouse,  and 
tell  them  why  I  went  there.  You  will  be  in  Paris 
then,  waiting  for  news  of  the  victory.  Ma  foi ! 
you  will  not  wait  long." 

"  But  I  shall  be  very  old,"  she  suggested.  "  You 
will  be  a  general,  and  wear  feathers  for  me  to  steal. 
And  we  shall  have  our  own  home  in  England. 
That  would  be  ideal  —  a  little  house  in  Kent  with 
an  orchard  and  a  meadow." 

He  nodded  his  head  indifferently. 

"  There  is  no  sun  in  England,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
was  there  once  for  a  week,  and  never  saw  him. 


42         The  Garden  of  Swords 

All  the  orchards  are  in  Normandy.  And  your 
people  do  not  like  the  French.  They  say  that 
they  do,  but  it  is  not  true.  Why  should  we  go 
to  London  when  there  is  Paris  ?  You  have  for- 
gotten already  that  your  father  was  an  English- 
man, mignonne ;  why  should  we  go  there  to 
remember  it  ?  " 

He  was  unconscious  of  that  self  which  prompted 
his  answer,  nor  would  she  think  of  it  on  such  a 
day. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  father,"  she  said ; 
"  sometimes  I  try  to  think  of  all  the  men  I  know, 
and  wonder  which  of  them  he  must  have  been 
like.  I  was  only  five  years  old  when  he  went  to 
America.  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  yet  I  seem  to 
remember  him,  though  I  have  forgotten  his  face." 

"  I  understand  that,"  he  exclaimed,  though  with 
no  suggestion  of  sympathy  in  his  voice ;  "  there 
are  many  men  that  I  can  remember,  though  I 
could  not  draw  them  upon  paper  for  you  to  save 
my  life.  Old  Giraud,  for  instance,  who  writes  to 
me  from  Paris  this  morning.  I  had  forgotten 
Giraud.  He  writes  of  news  that  might  have  been 
good,  but  is  very  bad.  There  was  the  devil  to 
pay  in  Spain.  A  word  to  the  King  of  Prussia  put 
an  end  to  it.  That  is  like  those  Prussians.  They 
bark  until  you  show  the  whip,  and  then  they  run 
to  kennel.  But  it  is  our  misfortune  —  " 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  43 

She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"  Your  misfortune  !  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  touched  her  ear 
with  his  lips. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  the  army  always,"  he  said 
earnestly ;  "  it  is  the  heart,  the  life  of  France. 
You  will  learn  to  think  of  it  as  I  do  by-and-by ; 
it  will  be  all  in  all  to  us.  When  I  speak  of  a 
misfortune  it  is  for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  my 
own.  Nothing  can  give  me  my  chance  but  war. 
And  my  chance  means  fortune  and  honour  for 
us  both.  But,  of  course,  I  do  not  wish  it  —  yet, 
Beatrix." 

His  mood  became  for  the  moment  that  mood 
of  tenderness  and  of  abandon  to  the  impulse  of 
love  which  had  led  him  to  make  her  his  wife. 
It  was  a  very  real  impulse  in  the  instants  of  its 
recurrence;  and  when  it  betrayed  him  in  look  and 
voice,  and  she  became  conscious  of  it,  the  bond 
of  the  marriage  vow  seemed  written  anew,  so  that 
the  twain  were  as  one  in  heart  and  soul  and  affec- 
tion. Strong  in  this  assurance  of  devotion  deep- 
rooted  below  the  common  interests  of  the  daily 
life,  Beatrix  had  no  eyes  to  see  those  other  things 
of  self  and  will  which  might  have  been  the  omen 
of  a  new  day  when  assurance  should  be  less  strong. 
She  gave  herself  up  in  thought  to  him,  yielding 
all  to  the  sweet  impulses  of  love  unmeasured. 


44 

She   was   his   wife.      Without   him,    life    had   no 
message  for  her. 

"  I  know  that  you  do  not  wish  it,  dearest," 
she  said  earnestly,  lifting  her  lips  to  his ;  "  your 
honour  is  my  honour.  What  fortune  could  I  have 
which  is  not  yours  ?  " 

He  answered  with  an  answer  that  a  lover  alone 
can  give,  and  for  some  little  while  silence  followed 
them  up  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  Their  way 
lay  through  woods  odorous  in  pines,  by  hamlets 
green  and  red-roofed  in  the  thickets  of  the  heights. 
They  found  the  glade  of  the  Niederbronn,  with 
its  babbling  brook  and  its  shade  of  chestnut  trees 
and  its  murmur  of  the  life  of  summer ;  and  it 
stood  to  them  as  some  Eden  set  in  the  mountain's 
heart  to  be  the  home  of  their  affections.  And  in 
this  glade  they  lunched  as  two  children  abroad 
upon  a  holiday. 

Remote  brakes  and  dark  places  of  the  forest 
welcomed  them  when  lunch  was  done,  wandering 
hand  in  hand,  lovers  in  a  garden  of  their  solitude. 
The  health  of  the  mountains  shone  in  their  eyes, 
or  gave  a  new  gift  of  youth  to  their  cheeks.  They 
spoke  of  no  serious  things. 

"  You  have  taught  me  to  see  that  the  trees 
are  green,  ch'erie"  he  said,  when  the  sun  had 
set  and  "  Apollo "  was  in  the  shafts  again,  and 
the  lights  of  home  began  to  be  a  pleasant  memory. 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  45 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  will  turn  farmer  and  wear 
a  blouse,  and  you  shall  drive  in  the  sheep.  It 
would  be  good  to  come  to  Worth  when  one  had 
earned  the  right  to  rest,  and  could  say,  c  I  have 
done  my  work  for  France.'  But  I  am  not  one 
of  those  men  who  could  take  the  holiday  first 
and  the  work  after.  Even  here,  and  with  you  at 
my  side,  I  do  not  play  at  doing  nothing  well. 
To  live  is  to  achieve.  The  man  who  has  achieved 
must  have  the  first  place  at  the  fireside.  When 
we  build  our  house  in  the  woods,  we  will  people  it 
with  all  the  old  friends  we  have  left  in  Strasburg 
and  in  Paris,  and  we  shall  remember  how  we 
came  here  at  the  very  beginning  of  it  —  before 
there  were  wars  and  victories." 

He  did  not  mean  to  wound  her.  There  was 
no  thought  in  his  mind  but  that  of  his  old  com- 
rades of  the  barracks  at  Strasburg,  and  of  the 
night  just  beginning  for  them.  He  saw  them,  in 
his  imagination,  in  the  cafes  they  haunted  ;  he 
peeped  into  the  great  darkened  stables,  where  the 
horses  lay  sleeping ;  he  stood  by  his  own  charger ; 
the  vision  showed  him  for  an  instant  all  the 
panoply  and  the  glory  of  the  service  he  loved. 
But  she  thought  of  none  of  these  things.  The 
smile  of  content  left  her  face.  The  words  which 
Brandon  North  had  spoken  in  the  salon  of  the 
old  house  were  heard  again  in  the  murmur  of  the 


46         The  Garden  of  Swords 

woods.  The  shadow  of  the  night  had  fallen  upon 
her  pleasure. 

"  If  the  end  could  be  as  the  beginning,  dear," 
she  said,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm  gently. 
"  Of  course,  I  know  that  it  cannot ;  I  knew  that 
from  the  first.  But  when  I  am  at  Worth,  how  can 
I  help  deceiving  myself  there?  Should  I  love 
you  if  I  did  not  ?  Why  should  we  remember 
these  things  to-night,  or  even  speak  of  them  ?  " 

He  read  a  note  of  sadness  in  her  voice,  and 
hastened  to  atone. 

"  You  shall  not  remember  it,  mignonne.  I 
am  a  fool  to  talk  so.  There  is  home  and  dinner. 
When  the  day  comes  we  shall  be  ready  for  it. 
But  to-night  —  to-night  I  shall  only  tell  you  —  ah, 
mon  ame,  what  can  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  told 
you  a  thousand  times  ?  I  love  you.  Do  you 
weary  of  my  book,  Beatrix  ?  I  can  write  nothing 
else  but  that  —  I  love  you." 

He  pressed  her  to  him,  taking  the  reins  from 
her  hands  and  shielding  her  with  his  strong  arm. 
The  hour  begat  an  exquisite  tenderness.  In  the 
valley  below  them  stars  of  lights  shone  out  from 
many  a  farmhouse  and  many  a  village.  Bells 
tinkled  on  the  necks  of  the  roving  cattle.  The 
breeze  surged  in  the  heights  of  the  pines,  scenting 
the  air  with  sweet  odours  and  the  freshness  of  the 
night.  Alone  in  that  solitude  of  forest  and  upland 


At  the  Chalet  of  the  Niederwald  47 

they  seemed  as  those  drawn  apart  from  the  living 
world  to  the  very  citadels  of  rest  and  of  love. 
Even  the  hamlets  became  towns  to  them.  Worth 
itself,  when  they  espied  its  lights  between  the 
descending  spurs  of  the  mountains,  was  as  some 
great  hive  of  men  where  love  had  no  part  or  lot. 
The  old  farmhouse,  welcoming  them  again,  stood 
up  as  a  home  of  their  childhood. 

Guillaumette,  the  servant,  was  at  the  door  of 
the  farm,  with  a  story  of  dinner  ready  to  be  served. 
To  Beatrix  she  said  some  pretty  word  of  welcome, 
but  to  Edmond  she  handed  a  telegram,  and  he 
stood  in  the  aureole  of  light  cast  out  from  the  open 
door  to  read  it.  Beatrix  never  forgot  that  picture 
of  him  as,  with  white  face  and  quickening  heart, 
he  read  the  message,  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  then 
crushed  the  paper  quickly  in  his  hand. 

He  read  the  message  and  stood  with  pale  face 
and  trembling  hand.  A  woman's  instinct  seemed 
to  tell  her  that  some  great  hour  of  her  life  was  at 
hand.  Their  eyes  met,  and  she  read  in  his  an 
intensity  of  love  and  sympathy  such  as  she  had 
never  seen  before. 

"  Edmond,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper, "  what 
is  it  ?  —  why  do  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

He  would  have  answered  her,  but  finding  no 
word  he  handed  her  the  crumpled  paper,  and  she 
opened  it  with  maladroit  fingers  and  spread  it  out 


48         The  Garden  of  Swords 

and  read  it  many  times  as  he  had  read  it.  There 
were  but  two  words,  yet  she  had  no  need  of  any 
question  to  comprehend  their  meaning.  The  cord 
of  her  life  seemed  to  snap  in  that  instant.  She 
turned  from  him  and  ran  up  the  stairs  with  dry 
eyes. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE    HERALD    OF    THE    STORM 

SHE  ran  upstairs  and  closed  the  door  of  her  bed- 
room behind  her.  For  a  little  while  he  dare  not 
intrude  upon  her,  but  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  fearing,  if  he  went  up,  to  find  her  dying  or 
dead  in  the  room.  A  thousand  thoughts,  striking 
the  whole  gamut  of  a  man's  emotions,  held  him 
to  the  place.  War  and  the  glory  of  war,  death 
and  the  risk  of  death ;  France  and  the  call  she 
had  sent  to  him ;  love  and  sorrow  and  the  moment 
of  farewell  —  each  was  the  outcome  in  its  turn  of 
that  slip  of  yellow  paper,  upon  which  those  two 
fatal  words  "Report  yourself"  were  written.  That 
which  was  even  cowardice  kept  him  for  an  instant 
from  the  darkened  room  upstairs  and  from  its 
secret.  She  suffered  there.  He  would  have  given 
half  the  years  of  his  life  could  he  have  gone  to 
her  and  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  said,  "  I  will 
not  go  —  my  home  is  here." 

A   great  silence    fell   upon   the    house.      Little 

Guillaumette,  who  had  seen    her   mistress's   face, 

had  run  away  to  the  kitchen  and  was  crying  her 

heart  out  there.     An  old  wooden  timepiece,  which 

4 


50         The  Garden  of  Swords 

had  ticked  for  the  soldiers  who,  fought  at  Jena, 
struck  the  hour  upon  a  crazy  bell,  and  told  them 
it  was  eight  o'clock.  Without,  there  was  no 
sound  but  that  of  the  leaves  rustling  and  the  mur- 
mur of  the  night.  The  man  cast  off  the  spell 
which  the  silence  had  put  upon  him,  and  called 
for  Guillaumette  when  the  clock  struck. 

"  Guillaumette  !  Guillaumette  !  I  must  go  back 
to  Strasburg  to-night.  Let  Jacob  bring  the  pony 
and  make  my  valise.  Madame  will  come  with  me 
—  I  hope  so.  Where  are  you,  Guillaumette  ?  " 

His  voice  sounded  hollow  and  high-pitched. 
It  echoed  through  the  little  rooms  of  the  farm 
strangely.  In  his  mind  there  were  many  confusing 
ideas,  but  only  one  impulse.  He  must  return  to 
his  regiment  at  once.  France  had  need  of  him. 
The  day  he  had  waited  for  was  at  hand.  Beatrix 
would  suffer  now,  but  afterwards  she  would  be 
glad.  His  courage  was  found  in  the  idea ;  he  ran 
up  the  stairs  at  last  and  entered  the  darkened 
room. 

She  stood  by  the  window.  She  had  drawn 
the  curtain  back  to  look  across  the  woods,  down 
upon  the  lights  of  the  villages.  He  saw  that  she 
had  not  taken  off  her  hat,  and  that  her  left  hand 
was  still  gloved.  When  he  entered  the  room  she 
turned  her  head  wistfully,  but  did  not  speak  to 
him,  He  crossed  to  her  side  and  put  his  arm 


The  Herald  of  the  Storm       51 

about  her,  and  wished  that  he  could  see  tears  in 
her  eyes.  The  mute  restraint  and  self-possession 
frightened  him.  When  he  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head and  drew  her  close  to  him,  her  face  seemed 
on  fire  ;  he  could  feel  her  heart  beating  beneath 
the  thin  muslin  dress  which  she  had  worn  for 
their  picnic. 

"  You  will  go  with  me,"  he  said  in  a  low 
whisper.  "  I  shall  be  in  Strasburg  to-morrow,  and 
afterwards  as  the  order  comes.  But  it  will  be 
something  to  know  that  you  are  near.  And  grand- 
mere  Helene  —  but  she  is  at  Geneva.  You  would 
be  alone  in  the  house — until  I  come  —  " 

She  laid  her  cheek  upon  his  as  though  to  cool 
it.  Tenderness  and  love  and  sacrifice  of  self  were 
conveyed  in  every  gesture.  Her  restraint  amazed 
him.  She  answered  him  as  one  who  had  no 
complaint  nor  even  argument  to  make. 

"  I  could  not  go  to  Strasburg,  Edmond.  And 
you  will  not  be  there.  Helene  would  not  wish  it, 
I  am  sure  of  it.  Let  me  stop  at  Worth  until  you 
return.  Jacob  is  here  and  Guillaumette.  They 
will  take  care  of  me." 

He  released  her  from  his  embrace,  for  he  wished 
to  find  the  light  in  that  hour  of  darkness.  There 
were  a  hundred  ways,  but  he  could  not  see  one 
of  them  distinctly.  Desire  to  console,  excite- 
ment, sorrow  for  her,  gladness  for  himself,  were 


52         The  Garden  of  Swords 

mingled    in    an    incoherency    of  thought    and    of 
perplexity. 

"  It  must  have  been  yesterday,"  he  said.     "  The 
Colonel  did  not  mention   it  in   his  letters.     There 
has  been   a   great  trouble   about   Spain,   and    that 
telegram  means   that   Leboeuf   is   calling   out  the 
reserves.      Giraud   said    that    it   was   finished ;    he 
did   not  mean   to  deceive  me,  and  I   understand. 
They  would  not  spoil  our  holiday,  mignonne,  until 
they  were  compelled.      Yesterday  I   heard   things 
in  the  village,  but  would  not  tell  you.     They  said 
that  the  King  of  Prussia  had  insulted  us  and  wished 
for  war.     If  that  is  the  case,  we  shall  be  at  Berlin 
in  a  fortnight.      Everyone  knew  that  it  must  come 
sooner  or  later;    but   that   it   should    have   come 
now !     If  it  were  not   for  your  sake,  Beatrix,  I 
should  be  glad  that  it  is  so.     There  is  nothing  to 
fear  for  the   armies  of  France.      We  shall   fight 
across  the  Rhine,  and  you  will  not  even  hear  the 
sound  of  the  guns.     I   shall  write  every  day,  and 
a  month  will  bring  me  back  to  you.     Ah,  my  little 
wife,  what  a  day  to  think  of,  when   1  shall  hold 
you  in  my  arms  again  and  tell  you  of  the  battles  ! 
Is  it  not  worth  a  month  of  waiting  to  have  such 
a  day  as  that  ?     And  you  will  get  my  letters  every 
morning.     Every  morning  I  shall  know  that  you 
are  reading  them.     The  time  will  pass  before  you 
dream   of   it.     You   will   go    to   meet   me  at   the 


The  Herald  of  the  Storm       53 

station  before  the  grapes  are  off  the  vines.  It  will 
still  be  summer,  and  we  shall  have  another  picnic 
at  the  Niederbronn,  and  I  shall  show  you  where 
the  armies  of  France  marched  to  Germany.  Ah, 
if  it  were  not  so  hard  !  " 

She  had  lit  the  lamp,  mechanically  and  scarce 
knowing  what  she  did,  while  he  was  speaking. 
The  glow  of  light  falling  upon  her  face  showed 
it  as  the  face  of  one  who  had  lived  through  a  year 
of  sorrows.  His  attempts  to  console  her  ended 
in  a  word  that  was  half  a  sob.  He  realised  that 
he  loved  her  more  than  country  or  the  ambitions 
of  the  old  time.  Pity  for  her  surged  up  in  his 
breast  as  an  agony.  She  would  be  alone  to  think 
and  to  remember ;  and  he  knew  already  what 
those  hours  of  loneliness  must  mean  to  her. 

"My  love  —  my  little  wife;  God  guard  and 
keep  you,"  he  said. 

She  pressed  his  hands  linked  in  her  own  and 
began  to  speak  of  his  journey.  She  did  not  wish 
him  to  see  her  face  or  to  read  the  truth  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  shall  wait  here  at  Worth,  dearest,"  she  said  ; 
"  it  is  better  that  I  should,  for  there  is  no  one  in 
Strasburg  now.  The  worst  may  not  happen,  after 
all.  And  I  should  not  care  to  go  back  to  them. 
You  will  write  to  me  to-morrow  and  tell  me  where 
the  regiment  is.  Perhaps  I  may  see  you  again 


54         The  Garden  of  Swords 

before  you  go  to  Germany.  And  I  will  write  to 
you  every  day.  It  will  be  something  to  do  even 
if  you  do  not  get  the  letters." 

She  made  a  brave  show  of  bearing  up  ;  and  he 
understood  and  was  grateful  to  her.  There  was  so 
much  to  do,  a  valise  to  pack,  uniform  to  be  put  on, 
a  hundred  things  to  be  spoken  of.  Neither  thought 
of  food,  nor  of  the  dinner  Guillaumette  had  cooked. 
Silently  and  with  method,  and  with  dry  eyes 
always,  she  began  to  help  him.  In  the  valley 
without,  the  mute  heralds  of  rain  and  storm  per- 
mitted all  other  sounds  to  be  heard  clearly.  An 
engine  whistled  upon  a  distant  railway ;  a  dog 
barked  in  a  garden  at  Worth ;  the  grasses  rustled 
fitfully  as  in  the  hour  of  coming  tempest.  Beatrix 
heard  the  sounds  and  was  strangely  conscious  of 
them.  She  knew  not  why  she  suffered  silently. 
Many  times  she  had  the  desire  to  lay  her  head 
upon  her  husband's  shoulder  and  there  to  give 
freedom  to  her  grief  as  a  child  at  a  mother's  breast. 
A  voice  said  to  her  always,  "  You  will  be  alone." 
She  clenched  her  hands,  and  turned  her  face  from 
him  again. 

"  Little  wife,  give  me  courage  such  as  yours." 

It  was  his  last  farewell  at  the  gate  of  the  garden 

wherein    her  roses    grew.       For    an    instant,    she 

remembered  that  she  might  be  holding  his  hands 

and  hearing  his  words  for  the  last  time.     All  the 


The  Herald  of  the  Storm       55 

depth  and  intensity  of  her  love  compelled  her  so 
that  she  clung  to  him  distractedly  and  with  all 
her  courage  gone.  He  felt  her  tears  upon  his 
cheek,  and  was  glad  because  of  them.  His  strong 
arms  crushed  her  dress  and  so  held  her  that  she 
seemed  to  stand  heart  to  heart  with  him. 

"  Good-bye,  mignonne.  To-morrow  I  will 
write;  in  a  month  I  will  be  home  again." 

He  stepped  into  the  cart,  and  the  pony  began 
to  trot  down  the  hill  to  Worth.  The  little  farm 
with  its  lighted  windows  stood  out  on  the  moun- 
tain side  as  a  cluster  of  stars  above  the  garden  of 
his  home.  He  saw  her  again  for  an  instant,  her 
white  dress  fluttering  against  the  background  of 
the  forest.  He  dare  not  ask  himself  what  the 
night  would  mean  to  her.  He  did  not  know  that 
when  a  month  had  passed,  an  Empire  would  have 
fallen,  and  the  armies  of  France  be  no  more. 

From  the  valley,  a  blare  of  bugles  echoed  sud- 
denly through  the  silent  hills.  Troops  were  mov- 
ing already,  then  !  The  note  thrilled  him  as  with 
all  the  fire  of  battle  and  of  war.  To-morrow  he 
would  ride  with  his  regiment  again. 

But  to  Beatrix,  listening  at  the  gate  of  the 
garden,  the  trumpet's  note  was  as  some  call  to 
the  place  of  death  and  tears. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    LAST    DAY    OF    JULY 

THE  sun  had  hardly  begun  to  shine  upon  the 
glades  of  the  Niederwald  on  the  last  day  of  July 
when  Beatrix  opened  the  window  of  her  bedroom 
and  looked  over  the  woods  and  the  green  vine- 
yards to  the  little  white  town  of  Worth  and  the 
glistening  river  in  the  hollow  of  the  valley.  It 
was  her  habit  now  to  wake  at  dawn,  for  sleep 
had  ceased  to  be  her  friend  j  and  there  was  a 
morning  hope  of  the  sunshine  as  though  the  day 
would  bring  some  news  of  Edmond  or  of  his 
regiment.  Sometimes  in  her  dreams  she  would 
believe  that  the  reality  was  but  imagination,  or 
that  she  would  awake  to  hear  her  husband's  voice. 
Every  step  upon  the  road  before  the  farmhouse 
quickened  her  heart,  and  sent  her  breathlessly  to 
the  garden  gate.  The  ultimate  hope,  that  all 
might  yet  be  well,  was  the  solace  of  many  an 
hour.  They  told  her  in  the  village  that  peace 
must  come  before  the  grapes  were  ripe.  "  It  will 
be  a  race,"  the  old  cure  said  ;  "those  Prussians 
will  run  to  Berlin  and  we  shall  run  after  them. 
In  a  month  Monsieur  will  be  home  again." 


The  Last  Day  of  July         57 

She  listened  to  the  old  priest's  boast  and  loved 
him  for  it.  The  silence  of  the  woodlands  helped 
her  to  self-deception.  What  war  could  there 
be  when  the  glades  were  sleeping  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  kingfisher  hovered  above  the  limpid 
pools,  and  the  church  bells  sent  their  message 
to  the  heights,  and  all  things  were  as  yesterday 
in  the  homes  of  the  simple  people  about  her  ? 
The  very  word  seemed  an  irony.  Yet  war 
had  taken  Edmund  to  Strasburg  and  to  his  regi- 
ment. War  had  left  her  alone  in  the  first  hour 
of  happiness  inexpressible ! 

There  had  been  rain  all  night,  but  the  looming 
mists  were  scattered  in  the  first  hour  of  dawn 
on  that  last  day  of  the  month,  and  a  surpassing 
freshness  of  the  morning  fell  upon  the  glades 
and  the  gardens  before  her  window.  Every  leaf 
had  gathered  its  little  gift  of  dew  and  husbanded 
the  finest  hues  to  give  them  out  in  a  spectrum 
of  violet  and  crimson,  and  the  purest  blues.  Her 
roses  shed  their  leaves  upon  the  sparkling  grass 
or  lifted  their  heads  to  the  dews  in  bursting 
blossoms  and  glossy  petals.  The  very  air  seemed 
to  rise  up  from  a  sea  of  the  sweetest  perfumes, 
and  to  fill  the  lungs  with  all  the  fulness  of  life 
realised.  It  was  a  scene  of  day  glorified ;  a 
scene  of  Nature  new-robed  and  awakened ;  of 
the  apotheosis  of  solitudes.  She  gazed  upon  it, 


58         The  Garden  of  Swords 

spell-bound  and  entranced.  She  could  not  re- 
member yesterday  in  such  an  hour.  Nevertheless, 
yesterday  spoke  to  her  —  for  there,  upon  the 
white  road  of  the  valley,  the  white  road  which 
the  poplars  fringed,  was  a  regiment  of  chasseurs 
riding  southward  to  Strasburg.  Even  at  the 
window  of  her  house  she  could  hear  the  'bugles 
blowing  and  the  clatter  of  the  waggons.  The 
trumpet's  note  thrilled  her  as  a  voice  of  war 
itself.  She  turned  from  the  window  and  ran 
down  to  the  kitchen  of  the  house  where  Guil- 
laumette  was  singing. 

"  Good-day,  Madame  —  you  hear  the  soldiers  ! 
Oh,  that  is  good  — all  day  the  music  and  at  night 
the  chasseurs.  They  are  going  to  make  the 
Prussians  dance  —  hein  ?  And  then  Monsieur 
will  come  home  again.  Do  not  doubt  it  at  all, 
Madame.  A  month  and  there  will  be  no  more 
music.  We  shall  all  go  to  Strasburg  and 
Monsieur  will  be  a  general.  The  cure  says  it, 
and  he  knows.  A  thousand  horses  in  the  village 
yesterday  —  and  all  night  long  the  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp !  Oh,  I  can  sleep  well  to  the  tramp, 
tramp,  tramp  —  moi !  I  think  of  Gaspard, 
who  has  gone  to  bring  me  a  mug  from 
Berlin.  There  is  nothing  else  in  Berlin  but 
mugs  and  sausages.  That  is  why  these  Prus- 
sians are  so  fat.  But  they  will  run,  run,  run 


The  Last  Day  of  July          59 

presently.  The  Emperor  has  gone  to  Metz  — 
eh  piff,  pouf,  bourn,  where  is  your  Bismarck 
then  !  " 

Guillaumette  was  a  wench  of  Grenoble,  small 
of  foot,  relentless  of  tongue,  with  pretty  hair  and 
a  young  girl's  face  against  which  the  sun  had 
warred  in  vain.  To  her,  war  and  the  rumour  of 
war  were  an  unbroken  delight.  There  would 
be  troopers  in  the  hills  all  day.  Why,  then, 
should  anyone  be  sad  ?  She  could  not  con- 
ceive that  state  of  mind  which  brought  tears  to 
the  eyes  a  second  time  for  the  lover  who  had 
gone  to  the  wars.  If  he  came  home  —  it  would 
be  with  gifts  in  his  hand.  If  he  did  not  come 
home  —  well,  there  were  horsemen  all  day  on 
the  road  to  Strasburg.  She  spent  her  hours  in 
the  old  kitchen,  where  the  copper  stove  shone 
like  a  plate  of  gold ;  and  when  she  was  not 
singing  "  AUons,  enfants  de  la  patrie"  her  ballad 
would  be  :  — 

"  Cent  mille  francs 

Sont  attrayants, 
Morbleu,  j'cn  conviens  sans  peine, 

Mais  ce  tendron 

Triple  escadron 
Fait  flotter  mon  ame  incertaine." 

Beatrix  listened  to  her  blithe  words  and 
took  heart  in  spite  of  herself.  This  child  of  the 


60         The  Garden  of  Swords 

people  could  teach  her  a  lesson,  she  .thought.  It 
was  a  lesson  of  duty ;  a  lesson  which  war  may 
teach  even  to  a  woman. 

"  Ah,  Guillaumette,"  she  said,  "  if  you  were  a 
prophetess  —  " 

"  Chut,  Madame,  why  should  I  be  a  pro- 
phetess to  say  that  the  Prussian  louts  are  going 
to  run  ?  Look  at  the  chasseurs  la  has  —  the 
horses,  the  gold  and  silver,  the  splendid  fellows. 
It  is  the  same  everywhere.  Gaspard  tells  me 
so.  Everywhere,  everywhere,  the  music  and  the 
colour  and  the  big  moustaches  of  the  cuirassiers 
—  and  not  a  Prussian  in  all  the  mountains. 
Why  are  we  here,  drinking  our  coffee  as  yester- 
day ?  It  is  because  of  the  chasseurs  who  go  to 
Berlin  on  their  horses.  Ah,  Madame,  if  there 
were  any  bonnets  there !  If  there  were  any- 
thing over  yonder  but  the  mugs  and  the 
beer  —  " 

She  raked  the  fire  angrily,  and  poured  the 
steaming  milk  and  coffee  into  the  basins. 

" Dame"  she  said  triumphantly,  "  look  at 
that.  No  wonder  the  Prussians  come  to  the 
Rhine  for  coffee,  Madame.  You  will  drink  it  in 
the  garden.  And  afterward  the  post.  Oh,  the 
blessed  post  with  news  of  Monsieur  and  the 
army.  And  the  sunshine :  Madame  will  ride 
her  pony  to-day  ?  Certainly  she  will.  I  will 


The  Last  Day  of  July         61 

tell  Jacob.  He  sleeps  all  day,  the  lazy  one. 
The  Prussians  are  coming,  he  says  !  Oh,  the 
poltroon  !  They  are  thousand  miles  away.  The 
cure  says  so.  As  if  there  could  be  a  blue  coat 
at  Worth  !  I  laugh  when  I  hear  it.  And  the 
chasseurs  in  the  village !  It  is  splendid,  this 
war  !  " 

She  showed  all  her  delight  in  her  eyes  —  for 
war  was  a  very  carnival  to  her  —  a  carnival  which 
must  people  the  hills  with  red  breeches  presently 
and  awake  the  mountains  to  the  martial  music 
which  quickened  her  steps  and  gladdened  her 
heart.  Hearing  her,  Beatrix  could  even  tell  her- 
self that  the  supreme  hour  of  her  life  had  not  been 
lived.  How,  if  this  little  chatterer  were  right, 
and  a  month  brought  Edmond  back  to  Worth, 
and  France  were  victorious,  and  all  his  joy  of 
victory  were  added  to  her  joys  of  love  !  She 
could  dream  of  such  a  day  on  that  morning  of 
sunshine  and  of  rest.  For  the  white  road  was 
deserted  again  when  she  carried  her  coffee  to  the 
arbour  of  roses.  The  old  white  houses  slept  once 
more.  The  woods  echoed  to  no  music  but  the 
music  of  the  leaves. 

It  was  at  seven  o'clock  when  the  postman 
came  and  brought  her  two  letters  —  a  long  one 
from  Grandmere  Helene,  who  had  left  Geneva 
that  day,  and  a  short  one  from  Edmond,  who 


62         The  Garden  of  Swords 

was  at  Strasburg  still,  but  spoke  of  an  immediate 
march  northward  to  Hagenau.  u  You  will  be  able 
to  drive  over,  ch'erie"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  tell 
you  everything.  Here  it  is  all  noise  and  dust 
and  trumpets  all  day.  I  cannot  believe  the  things 
I  see  —  I  cannot  believe  that  France  is  at  war. 
We  wait  always.  We  go  to  sleep  at  night,  and 
torches  rguide  us  to  our  beds,  and  students  sing 
our  lullaby.  I  have  heard  the  Marseillaise  a 
thousand  times  since  yesterday.  There  is  no 
road  to  the  north  which  the  waggons  do  not  block 
and  the  troops  follow.  Ah,  mignonne,  if  I  could 
ride  upon  one  of  those  roads  to  a  little  white 
house  and  take  a  little  white  figure  in  my 
arms  !  But  the  day  will  not  be  distant.  The 
end  is  near.  France  will  justify  herself.  I  shall 
be  at  Hagenau  before  the  month  is  out  —  and 
then  —  what  a  harvest  time  for  us.  And  the 
vines  will  still  be  green.  A  thousand  messages 
of  love  to  the  little  wife  who  is  waiting  for  me, 
and  who  has  forgotten  already  that  there  is  any 
other  country  but  France." 

She  held  the  letter  long,  gazing  wistfully  over 
the  woods  which  thrust  themselves  up  to  blot 
out  the  view  of  distant  Hagenau.  The  words 
of  love  and  confidence  brought  tears  to  hei 
eyes.  Yet  was  it  true  ?  she  asked.  Had  she 
indeed  forgotten  those  green  lanes  of  England 


The  Last  Day  of  July         63 

wherein  her  girlhood  had  been  spent  ?  Was 
she  heart  and  soul  faithful  to  this  new  country 
which  had  given  her  a  home  —  and  Edmond  ? 
She  could  not  answer  those  questions,  but 
crushed  the  letter  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress 
and  told  herself  gladly  that  to-morrow  might 
bring  him  to  her  —  to-morrow  he  would  tell  her 
again  that  he  loved  her  and  that  she  was  all 
to  him. 

Old  Helene's  letter  covered  many  pages.  Bea- 
trix skipped  them,  remembering  what  to-mor- 
row would  bring.  Nevertheless,  she  could  per- 
mit her  imagination  to  see  the  beloved  face, 
the  trembling  hand  that  wrote  the  wavering 
lines.  The  exhortation  that  she  should  return 
to  Strasburg  at  once  troubled  her.  She  had  no 
thought  for  the  city,  now  that  Edmond  was  to 
march  out  of  it.  The  old  farm  had  become  a 
home  like  no  other  house  which  had  ever  re- 
ceived her.  Every  room  seemed  to  whisper  her 
lover's  name.  A  memory  of  him  was  written 
upon  the  most  trifling  ornament.  The  roses  in 
her  arbour  were  his  roses.  She  treasured  the 
very  leaves  of  them.  The  woods  retold  her  love 
in  the  murmur  of  brook  and  branches.  She 
would  not  quit  a  house  so  dear  to  her,  though 
all  the  armies  of  Germany  had  been  at  the  gate 
of  it. 


64         The  Garden  of  Swords 

The  facteur  had  brought  the  letters  at  seven 
o'clock,  but  eight  o'clock  struck  before  she  left 
the  arbour  and  returned  to  tell  her  news  to 
Guillaumette. 

"Monsieur  will  be  at  Hagenau  to-morrow, 
Guillaumette.  He  may  be  here  on  Tuesday. 
The  regiment  is  to  march ;  his  letter  says  so. 
And,  of  course,  he  would  wish  to  have  his 
friends  here.  We  must  be  ready  against  that 
— -he  will  expect  it  of  us.  It  would  never  do 
to  disgrace  the  chalet  after  all  the  things  he 
will  have  told  them.  I  am  going  down  to 
Worth  now  —  " 

Guillaumette  put  her  arms  upon  her  hips  and 
laughed  loudly. 

"  Vela,  vela  —  we  are  going  to  Worth  now,  and 
we  forget  that  it  is  Sunday  !  " 

She  had  forgotten  it,  indeed,  and  she  stood 
with  a  rosy  flush  upon  her  cheeks  and  the  old 
straw  bonnet  swinging  by  its  ribbons  in  her 
hand.  The  excitement  of  the  week  had  robbed 
her  of  any  memory  of  days.  She  heard  the 
bells  of  the  village  churches,  and  all  her  English 
reverence  for  Sunday  came  to  reproach  her. 
Guillaumette,  on  her  part,  did  not  love  the 
priests.  She  began  to  bustle  about  the  kitchen 
again. 

"  We  shall  not  go  to  Worth  to-day,"  she  said. 


The  Last  Day  of  July          65 

11  We  shall  go  to  Mass  to  see  if  there  are  any 
soldiers  there.  That  is  what  Sunday  is  for.  There 
will  be  cuirassiers  upon  the  road,  and  the  hussars 
ride  by  to  Bitche.  I  heard  it  in  the  village.  If 
Monsieur  comes  back  to-morrow  and  brings  his 
friends,  it  will  be  the  wine  for  which  he  will  ask. 
It  is  always  like  that.  Wine,  wine,  wine  —  and 
when  the  wine  is  all  gone,  ban  jour  !  Oh,  I  know 
those  fellows  — •  I,  Guillaumette.  Do  not  think 
about  them,  Madame.  They  will  drink  us  up 
—  and  then  —  to  the  wars  !  " 

There  was  no  argument  possible  with  Guil- 
laumette when  she  had  spoken.  She  was  as 
imperious  as  a  general  of  armies.  Beatrix  used 
to  surrender  at  once,  telling  herself  that  Guil- 
laumette was  always  right.  And  an  idea  came 
to  her  when  she  remembered  that  it  was  Sunday. 
She  would  ride  her  pony  to  that  glade  of  the 
Niederbronn  which  had  been  the  home  of  their 
picnic  on  the  day  that  Edmond  left  her.  She 
could  not  sit  in  a  church,  she  thought.  The 
deeper  gifts  of  religious  consolation  were  lost  in 
the  unrest  and  doubt  of  such  an  hour.  The 
impulse  to  be  doing  something  was  irresistible. 

The    sun    was    still    shining    when    old    Jacob 

brought  the  pony  to  the  door,  but  scuds  of  grey 

and    black    cloud    loomed    above    the  valley,  and 

the    breeze    had    fallen    away  again   until   it   was 

5 


66         The  Garden  of  Swords 

scarce    a   whisper   in    the    trees.      She    heard  the 

bells  of  Worth  and  of  other  villages,  whose  red 

roofs    and    white    houses    dotted    the    valley  be- 
low   her.       But     there     were     no     soldiers     upon 

the   road,  and   everywhere    it  was   as    though  the 

spirit   of  the   God    of  peace  had   come  upon  the 
mountains. 


CHAPTER   VII 
"THOSE    OTHERS" 

SHE  struck  the  road  to  the  village  of  Reichs- 
hofen,  and  followed  it  upward  through  the  forest. 
There  were  few  abroad  upon  it,  and  such  as  she 
met  were  peasants  going  to  Mass.  An  old 
woman,  red-cheeked  and  hale,  gave  her  good-day, 
and  added  that  her  son  was  at  Chalons.  A  group 
of  harvesters  played  dominoes  upon  a  knoll  of 
grass  at  the  roadside,  but  stood  up  awkwardly 
when  she  passed.  A  farmer,  driving  a  weedy 
brown  horse,  drew  rein  as  he  approached,  and 
asked  if  there  were  any  soldiers  between  him 
and  the  village.  To  such  as  these  news  of  war 
was  little  more  than  news  of  that  distant  Paris 
which  interested  them  so  little.  The  Emperor 
was  going  to  Berlin  !  What  mattered  it  to  men 
who  were  watching  the  ripening  grape  or  hus- 
banding the  maize  and  the  tobacco  ? 

It  was  dark  in  many  of  the  thickets,  and  she 
rode  impetuously,  now  galloping,  now  letting  the 
pony  go  as  he  would.  At  the  cross-roads,  a  little 
way  from  Reichshofen,  she  heard  a  clatter  of 


68         The  Garden  of  Swords 

hoofs  behind  her  and  turned  her  head  to  see  a 
little  old  man  on  a  great  grey  horse,  whose  out- 
spread cloak  and  upturned  elbows  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  flying  mill.  She  recognised  him 
as  the  kinsman  of  the  Count  of  Durckheim, 
whose  chateau  lay  beyond  Froeschweiler,  and  she 
saw  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  her.  There 
was  no  greater  gossip  in  the  mountains.  He 
would  have  the  last  news  from  Strasburg,  she 
was  sure. 

"  Good-day,  Madame ;  did  you  think  that  I 
was  a  Prussian  ?  You  ride  like  a  hussar !  I 
have  seen  your  pony's  heels  ever  since  you  passed 
the  white  mill.  And  to  church,  too  !  " 

He  took  a  gold  snuff-box  from  his  pocket  and 
spilled  the  snuff  upon  his  white  breeches  and  his 
once  fine  vest.  Exertion  had  brought  drops  of 
sweat  to  his  forehead.  He  regarded  the  little 
English  girl  as  some  treasure  of  the  forest  sent 
by  providence  to  reward  him.  She,  in  turn,  was 
amused  by  his  candour,  and  glad  to  hear  a 
friendly  voice. 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Picard  —  and  what  makes 
you  think  that  I  am  riding  to  church  ? "  she 
asked. 

He  dusted  the  snuff  from  his  coat,  and  settled 
himself  in  the  saddle,  as  though  his  way  was, 
from  that  time,  her  way. 


Turned  her  head  to  see  a  little  old  man  on  a  great  grey  horse. 


"  Those  Others  "  69 

41  There  are  two  roads,  Madame,"  he  said  with 
a  flourish  of  his  arm,  "to  church  and  to  Berlin. 
As  you  are  not  upon  the  latter,  there  can  only 
be  the  former.  And  you  are  wise.  All  France 
goes  the  other  way  — " 

His  eccentricity  always  pleased  her. 

"  And  you,  yourself,  Monsieur,  you  are  on  the 
same  road  ?  " 

"  Impossible  to  take  any  other  when  Madame 
Lefort  rides.  I  shall  go  to  the  church  door.  It 
will  be  an  example  to  the  people  !  " 

"  But  if  I  am  not  going  to  church  —  " 

"In  that  case  there  will  be  no  example.  We 
shall  talk  of  Paris  and  the  army." 

He  was  full  of  self-content,  and  the  heavy 
clouds  which  cloaked  the  sun,  and  sent  the 
birds  skimming  low  in  the  open  places  of  the 
thickets,  were  not  heeded  by  him.  There  was 
no  one  else  upon  the  road  to  Niederbronn  now  ; 
even  the  glades  were  hushed.  Nature  listened 
for  the  storm  which  was  gathering  above  the 
pass. 

"  Captain  Lefort  is  at  Strasburg  with  Du- 
hesme's  brigade,"  Beatrix  said,  seeing  that  he 
waited  for  her ;  "  he  may  be  at  Hagenau  to- 
morrow, and  I  shall  ride  there.  He  does  not 
know  where  his  regiment  is  going  to  —  at  least, 
he  can  only  guess  it  is  to  be  sent  to  the  north. 


yo         The  Garden  of  Swords 

General   MacMahon   will    meet   the   Emperor   at 
Saarbruck.     You  have  heard  that,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  it  all,  Madame.  Everyone  in 
France  guesses  to-day.  We  have  seven  bodies 
in  command  of  seven  armies.  When  we  find  one 
head  we  shall  begin.  We  are  waiting  for  that. 
If  the  Prussians  would  only  wait,  too,  it  will  be 
a  great  war.  I  have  come  from  Paris,  and  I 
know.  Ah,  what  enthusiasm  in  Paris,  Madame, 
what  torches,  what  songs,  what  a  brave  people. 
Our  generals  are  moved  to  the  very  heart.  They 
were  all  in  the  bonnet  shops  when  I  came  away. 
We  are  a  nation  of  courtiers.  We  do  not  leave 
our  ladies  at  home  when  we  go  to  the  wars. 
Why  should  we  —  since  the  road  to  Berlin  is 
open  and  our  horsemen  will  ride  there  by-and-by, 
and  we  have  waggons  for  the  crinolines.  You  are 
an  Englishwoman  and  you  have  married  a  French- 
man. You  understand  these  things.  The  poor 
people  we  see  around  us  —  they  understand  them, 
too.  War  is  far  away  from  them  to-day.  It  will 
be  over  there,  oh,  such  a  long  way  off,  in  Berlin, 
where  the  Prussians  are.  If  it  came  here,  to  their 
homes,  their  fields,  their  villages  —  if  they  saw 
their  children  carried  out  to  the  graves  in  the 
woods  —  ah,  if  they  saw  their  children,  the  chil- 
dren who  have  not  made  the  war,  who  do  not  cry 
A  Berlin,  if  they  saw  them  —  it  would  be  different, 


"Those  Others"  71 

Madame.  But  we  shall  not  see  it ;  the  Emperor 
has  said  so;  the  seven  bodies  have  said  so.  The 
head  will  come  to  us  presently  —  and  then,  en 
avant  !  " 

He  was  a  strange  old  man,  Beatrix  thought,  while 
she  watched  him  sitting  there  awkwardly  upon  the 
great  horse,  and  lifting  his  hat  as  though  com- 
manding all  the  soldiers  of  France.  The  mingled 
earnestness  and  levity  of  his  address  moved  her 
strangely.  How  true  it  was,  that  no  one  in  all 
those  villages  and  farms  of  Alsace  had  ever  re- 
membered that  war  might  bring  the  soldiers  of 
Germany  across  the  Rhine  even  to  the  doors  of 
their  houses.  While  the  sun  shone,  and  the  birds 
sang,  and  the  vines  ripened,  how  could  they  tell 
themselves  that  to-morrow  might  not  be  as  yester- 
day ?  She,  herself,  was  no  wiser  than  the  others. 
Edmond  was  coming  to  Hagenau !  What  else 
could  she  remember  ? 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Picard,"  she  exclaimed  a  little 
sadly,  "you  do  not  really  believe  what  you 
say  ? " 

"  I,  Madame,  I  believe  nothing.  It  is  an  easy 
creed  which  never  leads  you  to  contradictions. 
When  I  peep  through  the  woods  to  the  village 
down  there  and  see  the  red  roofs,  and  hear  the 
Mass  bells  ringing,  and  watch  the  old  folks  going 
to  church,  I  say  —  this  is  war,  this  is  glory,  here 


72         The  Garden  of  Swords 

lies  the  road  to  Berlin.  Why  should  I  think 
otherwise  ?  There  are  no  Prussians  here ;  there 
never  will  be  any.  Your  husband  is  a  soldier 
and  what  is  he  doing  ?  He  is  thinking  of  a 
charming  wife  who  is  taking  care  of  his  chalet 
at  the  Niederwald.  To-morrow  he  will  see  her. 
In  a  month  he  will  cross  the  Rhine  again  and  tell 
her  how  many  Prussians  he  has  killed.  If  the 
children  die,  they  will  be  the  children  of  Germany, 
not  of  France.  Vive  la  France,  then,  and  let  us 
light  some  more  torches.  Paris  is  doing  it  all 
night.  Why  should  we  be  behind-hand  ?  Not 
at  all  —  we  will  do  as  Paris  does,  and  when  we 
are  hoarse  with  shouting  we  will  go  and  drink 
the  Rhine  wine  !  " 

He  did  not  see  that  his  irony  was  lost  upon  her, 
and  that  she  had  begun  to  be  very  serious  again. 
A  little  pattering  of  rain  upon  the  great  broad 
leaves  troubled  him  exceedingly;  he  wrapped  his 
cloak  about  his  throat. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I  am  old  enough 
to  be  rheumatic.  That  is  an  age  which  moves 
youth  either  to  ribaldry  or  to  compassion.  In 
your  case  it  will  be  compassion.  Let  us  shelter 
a  moment  and  forget  that  there  is  a  good  dejeuner 
to  be  had  in  the  inn  at  Niederbronn." 

He  turned  abruptly  into  a  little  glade  of  the 
woods,  and  she  recognised  it  as  the  glade  to 


"  Those  Others  "  73 

which  Edmond  had  taken  her  —  how  long  ago  it 
seemed  —  on  the  day  of  his  farewell.  The  very 
straw  which  had  lined  their  basket  was  still  upon 
the  grass.  She  could  have  repeated  every  word 
of  love  he  had  whispered  to  her  that  day.  An 
exquisite  memory  of  his  caress  made  her  limbs 
tremble.  Until  old  Picard  spoke  again  she  forgot 
that  Edmond  had  left  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  u  here  is  a  glade  made  to 
match  your  pretty  dress,  Madame.  Let  us  shelter 
until  the  sun  remembers  that  we  have  had  no 
breakfast.  As  for  those  other  fellows  —  !  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  a  sound  as 
of  horses  at  the  gallop  rang  out  above  the  murmur 
of  the  woods  and  the  patter  of  the  rain.  For  a 
little  while  they  listened  intently  as  the  sounds 
magnified  in  approach.  Beatrix  thought  at  the 
first  that  it  might  even  be  Edmond's  lancers  who 
had  come  from  Hagenau.  Old  Picard  put  his 
hand  to  his  ear  and  a  curious  expression  settled 
upon  his  face. 

"  As  for  those  other  fellows  —  you  hear  their 
horses,  Madame  ?  " 

"  There  is  someone  on  the  road  behind  us,"  she 
answered  quickly. 

"  Ah,"  he  continued,  "  then  I  can  still  hear. 
When  you  are  my  age,  you  will  begin  to  take 
your  senses  out  of  the  cupboard  and  to  see  how 


74         The  Garden  of  Swords 

many  are  left.  I  count  mine  every  day.  The 
eyes  to  see  my  friend  Madame  Lefort,  the  taste  to 
admire  her,  the  ears  to  hear  her,  the  touch  which 
tells  me  that  her  hand  is  the  smallest  in  Alsace  — 
ah,  Madame,  how  rich  I  am.  We  shall  tell  those 
other  fellows  —  if  there  are  many  of  them  —  do 
you  hear  many  horses,  Madame  ?  " 

She  listened  again.  Whoever  rode  toward 
Niederbronn  had  urgent  business  to  help  him  on 
the  way. 

"  It  will  be  the  chasseurs !  "  she  said  with  some 
little  excitement,  born  of  the  uncertainty.  "  I  saw 
them  this  morning  upon  the  road  to  Hagenau — " 

"  Madame,"  he  exclaimed,  "  they  are  not  chas- 
seurs—  they  are  —  " 

Again  his  sentence  was  unfinished.  He  stopped 
abruptly  and  took  his  snufF-box  from  his  pocket. 
When  he  had  dusted  his  vest  very  deliberately, 
he  continued  — 

"  They  are  Prussians,  Madame  Lefort  —  Uhlans 
from  across  the  Rhine.  Look  at  them  well. 
We  shall  see  many  in  France  before  the  year  is 
out !  " 

He  pointed  dramatically  with  his  finger  as  two 
horsemen  rode  suddenly  into  view ;  their  presence 
was  a  vindication  of  his  words.  Beatrix  had  met 
few  German  soldiers  before  that  day  ;  and  now 
when  she  saw  these  two  Uhlans,  who  reined  back 


"  Those  Others  "  75 

their  horses  as  much  from  curiosity  as  from  pru- 
dence, she  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  they 
were  not  Frenchmen.  Certainly  their  tunics  of 
light  blue,  with  the  scarlet  cuffs  and  shoulder- 
straps,  and  the  eagles  upon  their  hemlets,  were 
strange  to  her.  It  would  be  some  regiment  she 
had  not  met  with  either  in  Strasburg  or  in  Paris, 
she  thought. 

The  Uhlans  halted  before  the  glade,  but  when 
they  saw  a  harmless  old  man  with  a  young  girl 
at  his  side  sheltering  from  the  rain,  broad  smiles 
covered  their  faces,  and  they  beckoned  to  others 
behind  them.  There  were  fifteen  in  all,  Beatrix 
counted,  sturdy  fellows,  splashed  from  head  to 
foot  with  the  mud,  sunburnt,  bearded,  yet  well 
horsed  and  full  of  ready  activity.  One  who 
seemed  to  be  a  captain,  and  who  spoke  French 
with  a  guttural  accent,  bowed  low  to  her  and 
asked  the  way  to  an  inn. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  " si  fou  foulez  m'in- 
dlquer  une  auberge  par  id." 

She  knew  not  why  it  was,  but  a  strange 
sense  of  fear  and  foreboding  came  to  her  when 
she  heard  the  man  speak.  She  did  not  realise 
that  troopers  out  of  Baden,  for  such  they  were, 
had  ridden  into  France ;  but  a  vague  conscious- 
ness of  danger  environing  her  was  not  to  be 
avoided.  Nevertheless,  she  would  have  answered 


76         The  Garden  of  Swords 

the  question  if  old  Picard  had  not  been  before 
her. 

"  Herr  Captain,"  he  said,  "  there  is  an  inn  five 
miles  from  here.  You  turn  to  the  right." 

The  Uhlan  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Which  means  to  the  left,"  he  said ;  "  and 
then,  man  anc'ien  !  " 

Picard  shut  his  snuff-box  with  a  snap. 

"And  then  —  you  can  go  to  the  devil." 

The  German  seemed  amused. 

" 1  am  on  the  right  road,  Monsieur,"  he  said  ; 
"this  is  the  way  to  Paris,  I  believe." 

He  let  his  horse  go,  for  one  of  the  sergeants 
pointed  out  the  red  roofs  of  the  buildings  peeping 
up  through  the  glade  of  the  thicket.  When  he 
had  observed  them,  he  bowed  again  to  Beatrix 
and  addressed  her,  to  her  infinite  surprise,  in 
English  as  good  as  her  own. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  beware  of  that  old 
man.  He  does  not  tell  the  truth." 

He  was  gone  with  the  words,  and  she  saw 
him  a  few  moments  later  as  he  rode  up  to  the 
farm  and  began  to  beat  loudly  upon  the  door. 
Old  Picard,  who  was  nodding  his  head  and 
snuffing  incessantly,  vouchsafed  no  remark.  She, 
on  her  part,  had  viewed  the  event  as  some  scene 
of  a  play.  Uhlans  at  Niederbronn !  She  did 
not  believe  it  even  then. 


"  Those  Others  "  77 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Picard,"  she  said,  turning  her 
pony  suddenly,  "you  do  not.  mean  it;  they  were 
not  really  Germans  ?  " 

"  Madame,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  "  what  I  mean  or  do  not  mean  is  of 
little  account." 

u  But  if  they  are  Germans  what  are  they  doing 
upon  the  road  to  Niederbronn  ?  " 

He  stroked  his  chin. 

"They  are  doing  what  we  should  have  done 
an  hour  ago  —  they  are  having  their  breakfasts, 
my  child.  Let  us  go  home  and  imitate  them. 
The  sun  does  not  shine  any  longer  upon  us.  It 
will  be  a  long  time  before  the  sun  shines  upon 
France  again,  dear  Madame." 

She  saw  that  he  was  very  thoughtful,  and 
the  sense  of  unrest  and  of  danger  on  the  road 
returned  to  her.  If  there  were  Prussian  lancers 
at  Niederbronn,  would  there  not  be  others  at 
Worth  and  Hagenau  ?  In  that  instant  the  great 
truth  that  this  war  might,  indeed,  come  to  the 
homes  of  France  was  realised  by  her.  Fear  for 
Edmond,  a  fear  she  had  not  known  before,  began 
to  possess  her,  and  would  not  be  quieted.  She 
asked  herself  what  she  was  doing  there,  so  far 
from  the  chalet,  when  he  might  have  need  of 
her  or  even  have  sent  a  second  message. 

u  Oh !    let   us    go,"  she  said,  urging  her  pony 


78         The  Garden  of  Swords 

to  the  road  again ;  "  our  place  is  at  home, 
Monsieur  Picard."  . 

He  followed  her  reluctantly,  and  wished  to 
allay  her  fears. 

"  Chut,  Madame  —  I  would  not  have  missed 
the  spectacle  for  a  bucket  full  of  francs.  We 
must  get  used  to  it.  There  will  be  Germans 
upon  this  road  every  day  before  the  summer  is 
gone.  They  will  not  often  be  so  fortunate  as 
those  fellows  la-bas,  who  have  just  seen  my  little 
English  friend  in  her  pretty  habit.  And  there 
will  be  others  who  will  have  something  to  say  to 
them.  My  word  —  hark  to  that.  The  watch- 
dogs understand  the  German  language,  eh  !  Do 
they  not  speak  it  beautifully  ?  " 

He  halted  his  horse  again  and  listened  to  the 
strange  sounds  of  mingled  voices  and  the  baying 
of  hounds.  Those  troopers,  then,  were  argu- 
ing with  the  people  of  the  house  !  He  thought 
that  he  could  see  the  horses  of  some  of  them 
through  the  network  of  leaf  and  branch.  The 
road  itself  was  deserted,  and  the  rain  began  to 
fall  again  in  heavy  drops,  which  glistened  upon 
the  flat  leaves  and  gave  waves  to  the  puddles. 
Beatrix  herself  could  not  understand  his  curiosity, 
but  she  feared  now  to  be  alone  upon  the  road. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Picard,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  I 
were  not  so  cold  —  " 


"  Those  Others  "  79 

He  sighed  at  her  impatience,  and  was  about 
to  ride  on,  when  the  report  of  a  rifle  shot  rang 
out  above  the  silence  of  the  woods  and  the  patter 
of  the  rain.  Birds  went  winging  from  the  trees 
as  the  echoes  rolled  from  hill  to  hill  and  glade 
to  glade.  A  loud  shouting  was  heard  at  the 
farm  —  the  cries  of  men  who  found  themselves 
face  to  face  with  death.  Two  Uhlans  came 
galloping  wildly  up  the  pass,  with  five  horsemen 
pressing  close  upon  them.  They  went  by,  a 
flash  of  blue  and  silver ;  but  one  of  those  who 
rode  after  them  had  a  sabre  in  his  hand,  and  he 
struck  at  the  trooper  before  him. 

It  was  the  vision  of  an  instant :  the  vision  of 
faces  set  in  anger  and  ferocity ;  of  eyes  staring 
horribly  at  the  images  of  death  they  saw;  of 
horses  foaming  and  accoutrements  glittering  and 
mud  splashing.  Yet  so  real  was  it  that  Beatrix 
cried  out  when  the  men  passed  her.  She  tried  to 
hide  the  vision  from  her  eyes,  but  could  not.  She 
feared  to  see  the  shining  blade  fall  upon  the  neck 
of  the  Uhlan,  who  rode  as  though  he  raced  with 
Death.  No  murder  committed,  there,  at  the 
roadside,  could  have  filled  her  with  a  greater 
horror. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  he  will  kill  him  !  "  she  cried 
again  and  again. 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  would  let 


80        The  Garden  of  Swords 

her  eyes  follow  the  horsemen  no  more.  Old 
Picard,  on  his  part,  did  not  try  to  help  her.  The 
spectacle  was  as  wine  to  him.  Blood  coursed 
through  the  blue  veins  of  his  cheeks  and  forehead. 
He  gripped  the  reins  until  his  nails  cut  the  flesh. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  rain  fell  upon  his  face 
or  that  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shine.  The  story 
that  he  tried  to  tell  her  was  almost  incoherent. 

"The  hussars  from  Bitche — eh,  Madame? 
Do  you  not  see  that  they  give  them  their  break- 
fast ?  They  were  in  the  house  then  —  they  were 
at  the  farm.  Ma  fol,  what  a  meeting,  what  a 
dish  !  Keep  close  to  me,  child.  Do  not  look  at 
them.  They  are  the  hussars  from  Bitche.  The 
splendid  fellows  !  " 

He  drove  his  horse  before  her  and  began  to 
breathe  quickly  as  a  hunted  animal.  One  of  the 
Uhlans  had  ridden  through  the  gates  of  the  farm 
and  a  French  hussar  was  at  his  heels.  No  race 
at  Longchamps  or  Chantilly  was  like  that  race 
for  life  up  the  road  of  the  pass.  Old  Picard  saw 
that  the  pursued  was  the  officer  who  had  spoken 
to  him  at  the  glade.  He  did  not  bear  him  any 
grudge,  yet  wished  to  see  him  die.  It  was  as 
though  the  troops  of  France  had  sounded  the 
horn  and  started  a  fox  from  the  thicket.  The 
game  must  be  killed ;  that  was  all.  And  the 
hussars  would  kill  it.  He  read  their  ferocity  in 


Fired  wildly  on  the  stooping  figure  before  him. 


"Those  Others"  81 

their  faces.  The  hunted  man  was  their  prey. 
They  were  as  beasts  hungering  for  blood.  All 
that  they  had  learned  in  barracks  and  upon  the 
field  schooled  them  to  this  lust  of  blood.  The 
very  excitement  of  it  sent  them  rolling  in  their 
saddles ;  the  intoxication  of  it  was  almost  delirium. 
"  En  avant,  en  avant ! "  The  cry  was  hardly 
human.  It  was  the  scream  of  men  who  hasten  to 
see  another  die. 

Twenty  paces  from  the  tree  whereunder  Beatrix 
stood,  the  end  came.  One  of  the  Frenchmen, 
seeing  that  the  Uhlan's  horse  outpaced  his  own, 
drew  a  revolver  and  fired  wildly  at  the  stooping 
figure  before  him.  There  was  no  sign  upon  the 
instant  that  the  bullet  had  hit  its  mark ;  but,  when 
the  doomed  man  had  come  up  almost  to  the  tree, 
he  raised  himself  in  his  saddle  and  threw  his  arms 
above  his  head.  Beatrix  saw  his  face;  a  smile 
seemed  to  play  upon  it.  For  a  moment  the  smile 
hovered  there ;  then,  suddenly,  a  white  shadow 
crept  up  from  chin  to  forehead,  the  eyes  set  to  a 
wild  stare,  blood  gushed  from  the  mouth ;  the 
German  fell  headlong  from  his  horse  and  lay  dead 
at  her  feet. 

"  La  France,  la  France  1  " 

Twenty  voices  took  up  the  cry  in  frenzied 
triumph.  Other  horses  galloped  by  upon  the  road 
to  Worth.  The  Uhlan  lay,  face  downward,  in 
6 


82         The  Garden  of  Swords 

the  mud.  Old  Picard,  hat  in  hand,  paid  his 
tribute  to  the  dead.  Beatrix  heard  him  speak  to 
her,  but  his  voice  seemed  an  echo  of  a  voice  far 
off. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  the  sun  does  not  shine 
upon  us  any  more.  Let  us  go  home." 

His  words  awakened  her  as  from  a  horrid  sleep. 
The  rain  fell  in  torrents  on  the  open  road  of  the 
pass.  She  shuddered  to  her  very  heart,  but  it  was 
not  from  the  cold. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

OVER    THE    HEARTS    OF    FRANCE 

SHE  did  not  ride  to  Hagenau  on  the  morrow,  for 
the  facteur  brought  a  letter  saying  that  the  regi- 
ment was  still  waiting  to  complete  its  numbers, 
and  had  need  of  many  things.  Three  days  of  sus- 
pense intolerable  passed,  but  on  the  morning  of 
the  fourth  a  trooper,  who  had  been  in  the  saddle 
half  the  night,  galloped  to  the  chalet  at  dawn  and 
brought  the  great  news  that  the  "  Sixth "  were 
upon  the  road  to  Worth,  and  would  be  camped  on 
the  Niederwald  before  the  sun  set.  MacMahon's 
army  was  on  the  march  at  last,  the  fellow  said. 
He  would  join  de  Failly  at  Bitche  and  thereafter 
unite  with  Bazaine  to  give  battle  to  the  Prussians 
who  were  marching  to  the  Rhine.  "  Madame 
would  see  the  Captain  that  evening.  He  was 
bringing  four  of  his  brother  officers  to  dinner. 
To-morrow  the  regiment  would  rest,  but  the  next 
day  it  would  march  again.  He,  himself,  must  ride 
into  the  village  of  Elsasshausen  and  billet  the 
others  who  would  come  after.  But  he  could  drink 
a  bottle  of  wine  —  and  he  had  not  eaten  for  twenty 
hours." 


84         The  Garden  of  Swords 

Guillaumette  took  the  trooper  to  the  kitchen, 
and  kept  him  there  until  the  bell  for  Mass  was 
ringing.  Already,  on  the  high-road  below,  the 
signs  of  the  coming  invasion  were  many.  Jaded 
infantrymen,  gunners  with  mud  upon  their  very 
faces,  weary  horses  stumbling  through  the  mire, 
heavy  waggons  rolling  in  the  ruts,  horsemen  crying 
out  for  food  and  wine,  companies  of  Turcos  and 
zouaves,  the  outposts  of  cuirassiers,  staff  officers, 
who  rode  at  the  gallop  —  all  these  began  to  block 
the  road  from  Hagenau  and  even  the  by-paths 
through  the  woods.  The  rolling  of  the  drums  and 
the  blare  of  the  bugles  were  incessant.  Rain  fell 
pitilessly,  so  that  the  very  brooks  were  as  muddy 
rivers,  and  all  the  thickets  droned  to  the  babbling 
music  of  the  swollen  torrents.  Far  away  towards 
the  south  the  sky  was  an  unbroken  envelope  of 
mist.  The  gloom  of  the  day  was  intense  and  in- 
fectious, so  that  men  marched  listlessly  and  with 
heavy  feet  which  squelched  in  the  clinging  mud. 
Many  a  cottage  had  been  already  deserted.  The 
women  fled  to  the  hills  before  the  advancing  hosts. 
The  armies  of  France  marched  on  over  the  hearts 
of  France. 

Beatrix  spent  the  day  in  a  work  of  love  which 
brought  colour  to  her  cheeks  again,  and  the  light 
to  her  eyes.  She  would  see  Edmond  that  night,  if 
it  were  but  for  an  instant.  The  link  which  the 


Over  the  Hearts  of  France      85 

fatal  day  had  broken  would  for  an  hour  be  welded 
again.  That  sense  of  utter  loneliness,  which  had 
been  with  her  always  since  he  had  left  her,  was 
forgotten  in  the  new  thought  of  his  return.  The 
sight  which  she  had  seen  upon  the  road  to  Nieder- 
bronn,  the  dead  Uhlan  lying  face  downward  in  the 
mud  —  the  first  blood  offering  to  those  who  cried, 
"  Let  there  be  war,"  had  taken  so  grim  a  hold 
upon  her  imagination  that  she  thought  death  alone 
would  obliterate  the  memory.  Fear  for  herself, 
whom  all  had  forsaken,  fear  for  the  house  and  her 
home,  dread  of  the  solitude  of  the  hills  which  war 
had  awakened  was  hers  no  more.  Edmond  was 
coming  back.  She  would  show  him  that  she  had 
learned  the  lesson  ;  that  she  could  suffer,  if  need 
be,  for  the  country  wherein  she  had  found  so  great 
a  happiness. 

It  was  a  busy  day,  and  she  tried  to  see  nothing, 
to  hear  nothing  of  those  sights  and  sounds  upon 
the  high-roads.  There  were  roses  to  gather  from 
her  garden,  and  dinner  to  be  thought  of,  and  rooms 
to  be  made  bright,  and  a  hundred  little  things  to 
do.  Even  Guillaumette's  despair  could  not  trouble 
her.  Edmond  was  coming  back.  There  was  a 
moment  when  she  said  to  herself  that  she  could 
wish  he  was  coming  alone ;  but  she  rebuked  her 
own  selfishness,  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"  We  must  do  our  best,  Guillaumette.     They 


86         The  Garden  of  Swords 

will  not  expect  too  much  now.  Captain  Chan- 
dellier  comes  and  Major  de  Selay.  We  must  put 
them  in  the  white  room.  If  Lieutenant  Giraud  is 
with  them  he  must  sleep  in  the  nursery — " 

Guillaumette  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  know  Giraud,  Madame  —  what  a  man  ! 
He  is  the  great  big  boy  —  like  that.  He  eats  the 
soup  with  the  sabre — hein  ?  He  will  eat  us  up, 
Madame.  And  the  Capitaine  Chandellier  —  what 
an  appetite,  and  we  have  but  two  pigeons  and  a 
cabbage  for  the  soupe —  !  " 

"  Jacob  shall  ride  to  the  village,"  Beatrix  said  ; 
"  they  will  have  eggs  and  poultry  at  the  farm.  I 
will  go  there  myself — " 

"•But,  Madame  — !  Look  at  the  road  and 
say  how  you  shall  go.  Red  and  blue,  red  and 
blue  —  and  the  cannons  everywhere,  and  the  great 
fellows  who  know  a  pretty  face,  and  the  little 
fellows  who  must  stand  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  you  —  oh, 
I  know  those  fellows.  And  I  shall  be  the  Captain 
in  this  house.  Monsieur  has  wished  it.  Do  not 
fear  for  me,  Madame.  Guillaumette  knows  the 
chasseurs.  I  shall  go  to  the  farm  and  the  ser- 
geants will  stand  upon  the  tiptoes.  Xo  me  it  is 
nothing.  I  box  the  face — oh,  I  have  done  it 
often." 

Beatrix  found  the  merry  voice  tuned  to  her  own 
new-gotten  gaiety.  Since  that  day  of  her  pilgrim- 


Over  the  Hearts  of  France      87 

age  to  Niederbronn  the  burden  of  the  hours  had 
been  a  heavy  one,  but  now  she  cast  it  off,  and 
had  forgotten  that  to-morrow  she  must  take  it  up 
again.  Everything  in  her  home  reminded  her  of 
Edmond.  Sometimes  she  would  stand  before  her 
glass  to  ask  herself  if  he  would  find  her  changed, 
with  eyes  less  bright  and  cheeks  that  lacked  their 
colour.  But  the  mirror  told  no  such  tale.  There 
was  laughter  upon  the  pretty  face  it  showed  to 
her;  a  flush  of  pink  suffused  the  clear  white  skin; 
the  glossy  black  hair  curled  about  the  open  fore- 
head, and  fell  bewitchingly  over  the  little  ears. 
And  she  had  put  on  the  muslin  gown  and  the  sun- 
bonnet  he  loved.  Those  who  saw  her  at  the  door 
of  the  chalet,  where  she  stood  waiting  for  him, 
would  have  named  her  as  some  pretty  school-girl, 
returned  to  her  home  from  a  convent.  Yesterday, 
they  would  have  said  that  she  was  a  woman  who 
had  learned  some  of  the  lessons  which  life  can 
teach. 

The  pitiless  rain  had  ceased  early  in  the  after- 
noon, and  for  a  little  while  the  sun  shone  warm 
and  clear  upon  the  woods.  Down  there,  upon  the 
road  to  Strasburg,  all  the  armies  of  France  seemed 
to  be  blocked  in  confusion  inextricable.  Cuiras- 
siers with  dulled  breastplates,  hussars  with  bedrag- 
gled shakoes,  artillerymen  lashing  their  horses, 
aides-de-camp  roaring  oaths,  waggons  locked  to- 


88         The  Garden  of  Swords 

gether,  gun-carriages  stuck  in  the  ditches,  staff 
officers  threatening,  peasants  mad  with  terror — all 
these  poured  in  toward  Worth,  and  the  camps 
which  MacMahon  had  found  for  them  there. 
Even  on  the  height  above  the  valley,  the  woodland 
scene  had  quickened  to  the  note  of  music  and  the 
tramping  of  the  squadrons.  Watch-fires  sent  their 
smoke  curling  above  the  shading  trees;  troopers 
stood  at  the  cottage  doors  and  clamoured  loudly 
for  bread  and  wine  ;  horsemen  passed  the  chalet 
riding  wildly  to  Reichshofen  and  to  Bitche.  The 
very  air  seemed  full  of  unrest ;  the  birds  winged 
upward  fearing  the  cries  they  heaid  in  the  woods 
below  them. 

From  sunset  onward  Beatrix  never  left  the 
watching  place  by  the  garden  gate.  Every  little 
pennant  fluttering  upon  a  lance  down  there  on 
the  high-road  could  make  her  heart  tremble  and 
bring  blood  to  her  cheeks.  She  was  surprised 
that  all  this  stress  and  toil  of  war  moved  her  so 
little.  The  red  fires  burning  in  the  woods,  the 
echoes  of  the  drums,  the  flying  horsemen  —  all 
seemed  in  harmony  with  that  hour  of  expectation. 
Edmond  was  coming  home.  Those  who  had  no 
home,  begging  of  her  for  the  children's  sake  as 
they  fled  to  the  mountains,  moved  her  to  an  infi- 
nite pity.  She  saw  their  little  wealth  of  home 
piled  upon  carts  and  waggons ;  she  saw  the 


*  ru 


He  came  at  sunset,  galloping  up  the  high  road. 


Over  the  Hearts  of  France     89 

children,  hungry  and  outcast,  before  this  wave 
of  war,  and  her  heart  bled  for  them.  If  she  had 
been  an  outcast  with  them,  holding  a  child  in  her 
arms  and  knowing  not  whether  to-morrow  would 
give  life  or  death  !  But  she  was  all  blest. 
Edmond  was  coming  back  to  her. 

He  came  at  sunset,  galloping  up  the  high- 
road on  his  heavy  charger.  The  mud  had 
whitened  his  boots  and  found  its  way  even  to 
the  dark  blue  tunic  and  the  red  plumes  of  his 
helmet.  Fitful  as  the  sunshine  of  the  week 
had  been,  it  had  bronzed  his  face  and  robbed 
his  hands  of  their  whiteness.  His  moustache 
drooped  with  the  damp,  but  his  eyes  were  lighted 
with  all  the  fires  of  excitement  and  of  love, 
and  she  heard  his  loud  cry  of  salutation  even 
while  she  was  asking  herself  if,  indeed,  he  had 
come. 

And  so  she  ran  to  meet  him,  and  holding  her 
in  his  arm  and  whispering  her  name  again  and 
again,  he  crushed  her  pretty  dress  against  the 
buttons  of  his  tunic  and  covered  her  face  with 
kisses,  and  seemed  as  though  nevermore  would 
he  release  her.  In  that  moment  she  had  her 
recompense  for  all  the  weary  hours  of  waiting  and 
distress. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    FUGITIVE 

HE  released  her  lips,  but  with  fingers  still  locked 
in  his  he  led  her  to  the  house  and  began  to  tell 
her  all  his  news.  She  did  not  think  it  strange 
that  he  had  no  question  concerning  her  own 
welfare  during  the  days  that  had  intervened.  He 
had  seen  so  much  since  then  ;  the  fires  of  war 
burnt  him  as  a  fever.  She  was  content  to  listen 
and  to  know  that  she  held  his  hand  and  heard  his 
voice  again. 

"  I  have  been  twenty  hours  in  the  saddle,  little 
one,"  he  said,  "  twenty  hours  upon  a  biscuit 
and  a  glass  of  white  wine  at  an  auberge.  How 
good  it  is  to  get  home  again  !  Ma  foi  !  it  seems 
a  hundred  years.  I  cannot  think  that  it  is  only 
twenty  days  —  twenty  days  since  we  went  to  Nie- 
derbronn  and  you  taught  me  to  see  that  the  leaves 
were  green.  If  we  had  known  that  morning  ! 
And  you  said  that  you  would  be  an  old  woman  !  " 

"  I  should  have  been  if  you  had  not  come 
back,"  she  exclaimed,  speaking  for  the  first 
time. 


The  Fugitive  91 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  pressed  her  close 
to  his  heart  again. 

"  It  could  not  be,"  he  said  decisively,  "  for  me 
you  are  always  the  little  girl  of  Strasburg  I  saw 
at  the  convent  gate  five  years  ago.  And  to- 
night —  ah,  if  you  could  see  yourself  to-night, 
cb'erie." 

She  flushed  for  pleasure  of  his  words  and  opened 
the  door  of  their  little  drawing-room. 

"  It  has  been  a  year  of  days,  Edmond,"  she 
said  uncomplainingly,  "yet  I  knew  that  you  would 
come.  And  the  roses  have  been  ready  every 
morning.  Yesterday  I  would  have  ridden  to 
Hagenau,  but  Jules  Picard  met  me  and  said  he 
had  news  of  you.  He  has  been  very  good  to  us. 
I  rode  with  him  to  Niederbronn  on  Sunday.  It 
was  a  dreadful  day.  They  killed  a  German 
soldier  —  he  died  almost  at  my  feet — " 

His  merry  laugh  ran  through  the  little  house. 

"How — you  call  it  a  dreadful  day,  Beatrix! 
A  dreadful  day  because  a  Prussian  was  killed ! 
What  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you  that  at  Saar- 
briick  on  Tuesday  General  Bataille  killed  four 
thousand  of  them  ?  The  tale  is  everywhere.  It 
was  a  victory  for  the  Emperor  and  the  Prince. 
The  Prussians  ran  like  deer.  They  will  run  every 
day  when  we  begin.  And  we  shall  begin  to- 
morrow, cb'erie ;  to-morrow  we  go  to  the  north." 


92         The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  could  see  his  spirit  waxing  hot  at  the  very 
thought  of  it ;  and  his  forgetfulness  of  all  else  but 
this  consuming  passion  of  the  war  was  unmistak- 
able from  the  first.  He  wished  to  hear  of  nothing, 
to  speak  of  nothing  but  the  troops  of  France  then 
marching  northward  to  their  victory. 

"You  shall  tell  me  the  story  at  dinner,  petite," 
he  said.  "  I  have  asked  Chandellier  and  Giraud, 
and  the  Colonel  himself  may  come.  It  is  only 
for  to-morrow,  for  we  march  again  on  Saturday. 
Duhesme  is  with  us,  and  Michel ;  Douay  goes 
forward  to  Weissenburg.  We  shall  be  very  strong 
when  de  Failly  reports.  He  has  two  divisions  at 
Bitche,  and  Frossard  is  before  Saarbriick.  We 
have  the  cuirassiers  and  the  Turcos  and  ninety- 
six  guns  besides  the  mitrailleuse.  That  is  the 
medicine  for  the  Prussians  —  the  mitrailleuse. 
You  should  hear  the  tales  they  tell  of  the  Prince's 
baptism.  Whole  regiments  mowed  down  as  wheat 
by  the  wind.  Not  a  man  left  to  go  to  Berlin  and 
tell  the  others  about  it.  It  was  a  triumph,  a  pro- 
cession. Those  that  could  run  were  the  lucky 
ones.  Ah,  mignonne,  did  I  not  promise  you  that 
before  the  vines  had  ripened  I  would  be  home 
again  ?  " 

She  took  both  his  hands  and  looked  up  into  his 
face  very  seriously,  as  one  whose  love  wished  more 
for  him  even  than  his  own  ambitions. 


The  Fugitive  93 

"  God  grant  it  !  "  she  ejaculated  fervently. 

He  kissed  her  for  the  words,  but  could  not 
spare  any  praise  for  her  pretty  room  or  for  the 
roses  with  which  she  had  decked  out  the  mantel- 
piece and  the  little  windows.  His  thoughts  were 
all  of  his  comrades  who  were  coming  to  dinner 
at  the  chalet.  He  talked  incessantly  of  all  that 
had  happened  in  Strasburg  and  upon  the  march 
afterwards. 

"  Old  Helene  is  at  the  Place  Kleber,"  he  said  ; 
"  she  wants  you  back  there,  but  I  said  that  you 
would  not  go.  There  may  be  danger  on  the  road, 
and  while  the  army  is  about  here  you  will  be  safe. 
We  shall  not  leave  the  frontier  until  we  ride  to 
Berlin,  and  then  I  will  write  again.  If  it  were 
not  for  those  l  others,'  Beatrix,  I  would  take  you 
with  me.  But  our  friends  la-bas  are  merry  fellows, 
and  I  do  not  wish  you  to  meet  the  people  who 
have  come  from  Paris  to  our  picnic.  The  Colonel 
says  we  have  as  many  bonnet-boxes  as  waggons. 
It  is  his  way  of  speaking,  and,  of  course,  soldiers 
are  soldiers  always.  When  the  day  comes,  they 
will  not  fight  less  well  because  they  know  a  pretty 
bonnet  and  a  pretty  face  beneath  it.  I  do  not  like 
that  —  but  then,  you  know,  I  have  someone  to 
wait  for  me.  Was  it  long  to  wait,  mignonne  — 
were  you  very  lonely  ?  " 

She  was   glad   that  he   should   have   asked   the 


94         The  Garden  of  Swords 

question,  though  it  came  to  him  as  an  after- 
thought. 

"  I  counted  the  hours,"  she  said,  "  yet  I  knew 
that  it  must  be,  Edmond  !  " 

"  Ah,  the  c  must  be '  will  soon  be  a  word  of 
yesterday,"  he  said  gaily ;  "  you  shall  hear  what 
the  Colonel  says,  Beatrix.  Giraud  comes  with 
him,  but  the  Aiajor  is  busy  after  horses,  and 
Chandellier  is  to  dine  with  Mademoiselle  Serres 
of  the  Opera  Comique.  You  will  hear  her  when 
we  go  to  Paris  in  the  autumn.  She  has  come 
here  to  learn  how  Marguerite  feels  when  Valentine 
has  gone  to  the  wars.  It  is  a  splendid  idea,  and 
Serres  amuses  me  always.  She  has  ridden  with 
the  regiment  from  Strasburg,  and  is  now  at  the 
inn  with  the  others.  I  am  going  down  there  by- 
and-by  to  arrange  for  to-morrow.  If  the  Marshal 
is  wise,  he  will  not  hurry  us.  The  men  are 
coming  in  every  day,  and  we  shall  have  our  full 
numbers  before  the  week  is  out.  It  does  not 
matter,  of  course,  for  we  have  an  army  here  that 
could  fight  all  the  Germans  on  the  Rhine.  And 
Saarbriick  will  have  demoralised  them.  Our  spirit 
is  splendid.  You  do  not  know  what  magnificent 
fellows  we  lead,  Beatrix.  There  are  no  finer 
troops  in  the  world.  I  would  risk  the  safety  of 
France  a  hundred  times  with  such  men  as  our 
lancers  at  my  back.  I  would  stake  my  own  life 


The  Fugitive  95 

on  the  victory  which  they  will  win  if  only  those 
Prussians  will  make  haste  and  show  themselves. 
But  they  know  better.  They  wait  for  us,  and 
they  will  not  wait  long.  It  will  be  like  a  storm 
in  summer,  petite —  a  little  darkness,  and  then  the 
sunshine  and  my  home  !  " 

His  mood  was  one  which  would  brook  no 
contradiction.  Much  as  she  wished  to  talk  of 
many  things,  she  saw  that  he  would  have  no 
mind  for  them ;  and  she  hid  away  those  little 
secrets  of  her  love  which  at  any  other  time  she 
would  have  whispered  joyously.  His  hope  and 
happiness  were  very  dear  to  her ;  and  when  by- 
and-by  Colonel  Tripard  himself  came  to  the 
house,  and  Lieutenant  Giraud  with  him,  she  wel- 
comed them  as  friends  who  could  talk  of  things 
which  were  more  fitting  and  momentous  at 
such  an  hour.  Simple  as  their  dinner  was,  they 
had  the  music  of  the  drums  and  the  tramp  of 
squadrons  marching  to  make  the  music  of  a 
feast.  And  Edmond  was  at  home  again.  The 
little  house  seemed  full  of  bright  lights  as  of 
the  radiance  of  her  own  happiness.  The  watch- 
fires  on  the  hills  were  the  beacons  of  her  happi- 
ness. 

Colonel  Tripard,  a  veteran  soldier,  with  a 
pleasing  voice  and  a  gentle  manner,  spoke  little 
but  spoke  well.  Lieutenant  Giraud,  a  flaneur 


96         The  Garden  of  Swords 

without  brains,  babbled  always  of  the  victory  at 
Saarbriick.  Lefort  himself  was  proud  of  the  little 
wife  who  sat  at  the  foot  of  his  table  —  proud  of 
her  prettiness  and  of  the  gentle  welcome  she  gave 
to  his  friends. 

"  I  will  not  let  her  go  back  to  Strasburg,  my 
Colonel,"  he  said,  when  Saarbriick  had  been  for- 
gotten for  an  instant.  "  Am  I  not  right  ?  Is  she 
not  better  with  the  army  ?  " 

"  While  you  are  here,  yes.  And  the  army 
should  be  grateful  to  you.  But,  of  course,  Madame 
will  return  when  we  are  gone." 

"  To  tell  them  of  your  victory,  Colonel.  Is 
there  any  other  reason  ?  "  Beatrix  asked. 

He  curled  his  moustache,  and  shook  his  head 
thoughtfully. 

"  There  will  be  many  soldiers  here,  Madame 
Lefort.  They  are  not  always  the  friends  of 
women.  And  we  have  the  Algerians  with  us. 
They  are  splendid  fellows,  but  —  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  A  shadow  of  anxi- 
ety crossed  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  say, 4  Save  us  from  our 
friends,'  Colonel." 

Lieutenant  Giraud  chimed  in  : 

"  Save  them  from  their  friends'  wine  cellars, 
Madame  Lefort.  That  is  what  the  Colonel  would 
say.  They  are  the  devil,  those  Turcos.  A  plague 


The  Fugitive  97 

of  locusts  is  better.  If  you  have  any  wine  in  your 
cellars,  give  it  to  them  and  go  out  to  the  hills 
while  they  drink  it.  There  will  be  nothing  but 
empty  bottles  in  Germany  a  month  from  now. 
They  are  always  thirsty  —  the  camels  !  " 

Beatrix  ignored  him. 

"  There  were  Baden  troopers  here  on  Sun- 
day," she  said  quietly;  "they  paid  for  what 
they  had  and  robbed  none.  If  I  am  to  run 
away,  it  must  not  be  from  the  soldiers  of  France, 
Colonel." 

Lefort  heard  her  with  pleasure. 

"  She  is  right,"  he  said ;  "  we  will  leave  the 
Prussians  to  do  the  running,  my  Colonel.  And 
this  house  is  not  upon  the  high-road.  If  a  soldier 
comes  here  to  ask  for  a  glass  of  wine,  he  shall 
have  one !  " 

"  He  is  coming  now,  then,"  exclaimed  Giraud  ; 
"  hark  how  the  fellow  gallops.  You  will  have 
to  look  for  a  bucket  for  a  rascal  who  rides  like 
that." 

All  listened  for  a  moment  and  heard  a  dull 
heavy  sound,  as  of  the  thunder  of  hoofs  muted 
by  the  wet  of  the  road,  without.  Some  trooper 
was  galloping  towards  Reichshofen,  and  galloping 
as  though  for  his  life.  When  he  came  up  to  the 
chalet  he  reined  back  his  horse  and  began  to  shout 
like  one  possessed  — 


98         The  Garden  of  Swords 

"Save  yourselves,  save  yourselves;  the  Prus- 
sians are  coming." 

The  Colonel  filled  his  glass  and  sipped  it.  The 
others  looked  at  each  other  incredulously. 

"The  man  is  mad,"  said  Giraud. 

"  Or  drunk,"  said  Tripard ;  "  a  gallop  in  the 
hills  will  do  him  good.  Apropos,  Captain,  where 
does  your  road  lead  to  ?  We  have  twenty  maps 
of  Germany  la-bas  but  none  of  France.  That  is 
the  way  our  people  do  things." 

"  They  fear  you  will  lose  the  road  to  Ber- 
lin, Colonel,"  suggested  Beatrix ;  but  Edmond 
said  — 

"It  is  the  road  to  Reichshofen  and  Nieder- 
bronn.  Those  who  join  de  Failly  will  go  that 
way  to-morrow,  my  Colonel.  There  is  plenty  of 
cover  for  an  ambush  if  ever  the  Germans  this 
way  — " 

"  If  the  Germans  — "  ejaculated  Giraud  with 
irony  that  was  almost  indignation. 

"  They  were  here  on  Sunday,  Monsieur  Giraud," 
Beatrix  said  quietly.  • 

The  laugh  was  turned  against  the  lieutenant, 
and  they  were  still  merry  over  it  when  a  second 
trooper  was  heard  galloping  up  the  road.  He  rode 
feebly,  as  one  upon  a  weary  horse ;  and  when  he 
came  to  the  garden  gate  they  could  hear  him  cry- 
ing for  help  in  a  weak  and  trembling  voice. 


The  Fugitive  99 

"  Another,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "  Sacre  bleu  — 
the  whole  regiment  is  drunk  to-night,  then." 

A  little  while  they  waited  in  silence,  for 
Guillaumette  ran  to  the  door.  She  came  bustling 
into  the  room  presently  with  a  white  face  and  lips 
which  could  scarcely  articulate  her  news. 

"  Monsieur,  Monsieur,"  she  said  wildly,  "  there 
is  a  man  dying  in  the  garden  —  come  then  !  " 

Her  news  was  so  unlocked  for  that  all 
rose  to  their  feet  at  once ;  but  Edmond  put 
his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder  and  held  her 
back. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  ;  "  stay  here,  and  we 
will  see." 

He  went  into  the  hall  with  the  two  men  at 
his  heels.  Through  the  open  door  there  came  a 
fresh  wind  of  the  night  to  set  the  candles 
guttering  in  their  sticks  and  to  blow  petals  from 
the  roses  she  had  picked.  The  empty  chairs  and 
the  food  still  upon  the  plates  seemed  ominous, 
in  some  way,  of  disaster.  She  heard  the  men  all 
talking  together,  and  to  their  voices  was  added 
the  moaning  voice  of  a  stranger.  When  she  could 
restrain  her  impatience  no  longer  and  went  a  little 
way  into  the  hall,  she  beheld  a  spectacle  so  terrible 
that  she  sickened  before  it  and  would  have  fallen 
if  Edmond  had  not  put  his  arm  about  her.  One 
of  the  hussars  of  Douay's  brigade  stood  in  the 


ioo       The  Garden  of  Swords 

lobby ;  he  had  a  great  gash  upon  his  face,  and 
the  clotted  blood  had  stained  his  tunic  a  deep 
brown.  The  pitiful  eyes  of  the  man,  his  wan 
cheeks,  his  failing  voice  told  her  that  death  had 
ridden  with  him  upon  the  road. 

"  Messieurs,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  it  is  a  defeat  — 
a  rout  at  Weissenburg.  The  general  is  killed  ; 
the  chasseurs  are  cut  to  pieces.  I  have  ridden 
all  day  with  Uhlans  at  my  heels.  Save  yourselves, 
Messieurs,  for  they  are  coming  here  !  " 

He  spoke  with  a  sympathetic  earnestness,  as 
though  their  safety  was  of  great  concern  to  him ; 
but  the  effort  was  too  much  for  his  strength,  and 
of  a  sudden  he  put  both  hands  upon  his  forehead 
and  reeled  forward  among  them. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Messieurs,  what  pain  I  have  !  " 
he  cried. 

The  Colonel's  strong  arm  was  about  him  in  a 
moment. 

11  Man  pauvre"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  shall  rest 
here  —  a  glass  of  wine  quick,  Captain;  he  will 
tell  us  his  story  afterwards." 

Beatrix  had  stood  mute  in  her  distress  while 
the  man  spoke  ;  but  now,  when  she  heard  his  cry 
of  pain,  a  woman's  instinct  released  her  will,  and 
she  was  first  in  the  room  for  the  wine  they  sought. 
When  she  had  filled  a  glass  of  it  and  returned  to 
the  hall,  the  huzzar  lay  full  length  upon  the 


The  Fugitive  101 

carpet,  his  hands  still  clasping  his  head  as 
though  to  crush  the  pain  of  the  mortal  wound 
he  carried. 

u  Here  —  here  is  the  wine,  Colonel." 

Tripard  thrust  her  back  gently. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said.  "  His  story  is  told,  my 
child." 


CHAPTER   X 

WAITING 

THEY  carried  the  body  of  the  dead  hussar  to  the 
coach-house  and  laid  it  there  upon  a  mattress, 
with  candles  set  on  either  side  of  it.  Death  for 
France  was  new  to  them  then.  This  man,  whom 
night  had  sent  to  their  doors,  might  have  been 
one  of  their  own  servants  stricken  by  some  acci- 
dent of  farm  or  field.  The  day  was  to  come 
when  the  dead  would  be  no  more  to  them  than 
the  blades  of  grass  their  horses  trod.  But  that 
day  was  not  yet. 

Though  they  had  hardly  begun  their  dinner 
when  the  wounded  man  came  to  the  door,  no 
one  thought  now  of  food.  Beatrix  herself,  white 
and  silent,  in  her  little  drawing-room,  heard  them 
passing  to  and  fro,  now  out  to  the  gate  to  hear 
if  other  troopers  rode  that  way  ;  now  to  the  stables 
to  saddle  their  horses.  Blank  incredulity  marked 
all  their  words.  Abel  Douay,  the  intrepid,  ever- 
zealous  Douay,  surprised  !  His  division  cut  to 
pieces  —  he  who  was  to  march  by  Weissenburg  to 
their  support  on  the  morrow.  They  could  not 
believe  it.  The  troopers  had  been  the  victims 


Waiting  103 

of  some  skirmish ;  they  had  fled  in  panic  from 
some  marauding  Uhlans.  In  any  case,  those  at 
the  chalet  must  ride  down  to  headquarters  to 
learn  the  truth.  The  very  solitude  of  the  Nie- 
derwald  had  become  intolerable  to  them.  Even 
Lefort  had  his  excuses  for  the  journey.  His 
curiosity  burned  him  as  a  fire. 

"  I  shall  not  be  away  an  hour,  Beatrix,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  necessary  that  I  go.  We  shall  send 
some  troopers  to  see  to  that  poor  fellow  yonder, 
and  the  Colonel  will  make  this  house  his  head- 
quarters and  have  a  sentry  here.  You  must  be 
brave,  little  one.  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  the 
story,  but  it  is  for  us  to  be  prudent.  If  there  are 
Germans  at  Weissenburg  I  must  send  my  little 
wife  to  Strasburg,  after  all.  I  did  not  believe 
that  it  could  happen  so.  I  will  not  believe  it 
until  the  news  is  confirmed  down  yonder." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  me,  dearest,"  she 
said  quietly.  "  I  shall  not  go  back  to  Strasburg 
while  you  are  here.  If  the  worst  happens,  no 
one  will  trouble  about  the  chalet.  You  do  not 
wish  me  to  go  —  Edmond  ?  " 

"I  —  I  wish  it,  Beatrix,  God  forbid  !  After 
all,  the  army  is  here,  and  that  is  enough.  But  I 
did  not  think  that  it  would  come  to  this.  Ger- 
mans at  Weissenburg  !  How  can  they  be  there  ? 
Our  vedettes  rode  over  the  very  ground  yesterday. 


IO4       The  Garden  of  Swords 

They  did  not  see  a  single  trooper.  They  are  not 
blind,  and  those  others  were  not  telling  the  truth. 
I  shall  come  back  in  an  hour  and  be  sure  of  it. 
You  will  wait  up  for  me  —  mignonne  !  " 

His  ideas  were  changing  and  strangely  excited. 
In  one  moment  he  would  speak  of  her  safety,  in 
the  next  of  the  orders  for  to-morrow.  They  were 
to  follow  Douay  to  the  north  ;  de  Failly  was  com- 
ing down  from  Bitche ;  the  Marshal  was  at 
Hagenau.  There  would  be  a  great  battle  on  the 
Sunday,  and  the  Germans  would  be  driven  back 
far  beyond  the  Rhine.  That  would  be  the  begin- 
ning and  the  end  of  the  war.  MacMahon  would 
march  into  Baden ;  the  Emperor  would  enter 
Germany  by  Restall,  and  go  straight  to  Berlin. 
There  would  be  no  more  war  in  Europe  for  half 
a  century.  He  would  take  her  to  Paris,  and  this 
trouble  should  make  their  holiday  a  holiday  indeed. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  the  three  rode  away 
from  the  chalet.  In  the  aureole  of  light,  cast  out 
from  the  window  of  her  drawing-room,  she  saw 
the  anxious  face  of  Colonel  Tripard,  the  laughing 
eyes  of  Lieutenant  Giraud,  the  restless  haunting 
look  which  Edmond  turned  toward  her.  She 
heard  their  excited  talk  as  they  turned  from  the 
gate  to  the  high-road,  and  went  cantering  down  to 
Worth.  None  of  them  looked  back.  The  moon 
shone  fitfully  upon  the  dripping  trees  and  puddles 


Waiting  105 

in  the  lanes.  She  could  see  the  candles  gutter- 
ing by  the  body  of  the  dead  man  ;  far  away  she 
heard  the  rumble  of  waggons  and  the  rolling  of  the 
drums.  Guillaumette  and  a  little  group  of  farm 
servants  discussed  the  terror  of  the  night  over 
there  in  the  stables.  A  realisation,  not  of  her  own 
peril,  but  of  her  solitude,  overwhelmed  her.  The 
presence  of  the  dead  haunted  her.  She  ran  up 
to  her  bedroom,  and  sitting  in  the  unlighted  room 
she  opened  her  window  and  looked  out  over  the 
awakened  vineyards.  France  had  poured  its  very 
life  into  that  valley.  Watchfires  glowed  red  in 
the  woods  as  a  thousand  stars  of  good  omen.  She 
could  see  regiments  of  cuirassiers  with  the  moon- 
beams glowing  upon  their  helmets  and  their  breast- 
plates while  they  march  northward  to  the  villages 
by  the  river.  The  brooks  shone  as  rivulets  of 
molten  silver.  The  silence  of  the  thickets  about 
the  house  was  weird  and  terrifying.  She  thought 
to  see  those  woods  quicken  to  life  and  pour 
from  their  heart  the  hosts  of  the  enemy.  The 
memory  of  the  dead  hussar's  face  was  with  her 
always. 

She  sat  at  the  window  of  her  room,  and  her 
strange  life  came  back  in  many  pictures  of  her 
childhood.  She  remembered  her  mother's  face  ; 
there  was,  far  back  in  the  years,  the  dim  recol- 
lection of  another  —  of  that  father  who  had  died 


io6       The  Garden  of  Swords 

in  America  and  left  her  to  become  the  child  of 
France,  and  the  wife  of  one  of  France's  best 
soldiers.  It  was  odd  that  in  such  an  hour  a 
memory  of  the  gardens  of  her  own  England 
would  trouble  her  and  set  her  longing  for  them. 
The  first  fruits  of  her  happiness  had  been  gar- 
nered there.  Nevertheless,  the  years  she  had 
lived  in  Strasburg  had  given  her  Edmond.  It  had 
been  old  Helene's  dearest  wish  always  that  "  her 
children,"  as  she  called  them,  should  be  man  and 
wife.  Now  that  wish  was  realised  —  yet  to  what 
purpose  ?  What  irony  of  destiny  had  chosen  this 
hour  of  the  consummation  of  their  love  to  put 
them  asunder  ?  If  she  had  known  nothing  of  the 
meaning  of  war  until  that  day,  the  night  of  the 
day  taught  her  generously.  This  outpouring  of 
the  sons  of  France,  this  fleeing  of  peasants  to  the 
mountains,  these  endless  squadrons  upon  the  high- 
road, this  fever  of  life,  this  shutting  of  the  doors 
upon  the  homes  of  France  —  this  was  war.  She 
did  not  know  the  truth  a  month  ago,  but  now  she 
knew  for  all  time.  None  the  less,  courage,  her 
dead  father's  gift  to  her,  was  ready  to  console  her 
for  the  knowledge.  She  was  the  wife  of  one  of 
France's  soldiers,  she  told  herself.  For  his  sake 
she  would  show  a  laughing  face  to  all  the  world 
to-morrow.  Yet,  if  he  should  die  — !  For  the 
first  time  since  the  day  of  the  ultimate  calamity 


Waiting  107 

she  knelt  at  her  bedside  and  sent  a  fervent  prayer 
to  heaven  that  God  would  give  her  the  life  of 
the  man  she  loved. 

In  distant  Normandy  another  woman  prayed  at 
the  same  hour  for  the  hussar,  who  lay  still  and 
white  between  the  guttering  candles  they  had  set 
up  in  the  coach-house. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE    HUSSARS    ARE    AT    GUNSTETT 

IT  fell  wet  upon  the  morrow,  a  heavy  soaking  rain, 
which  quenched  the  watchfires  and  wet  the  shiver- 
ing troopers  to  their  very  skins.  All  day  long, 
weary  infantrymen  and  gunners  sleeping  upon  their 
guns  came  listlessly  down  the  valley  road  ;  even 
the  woodland  heights  were  solitudes  no  more. 
Beatrix,  worn  with  anxiety  and  waiting,  saw  the 
dark  faces  of  the  Algerians  as  they  lurked  about 
the  garden  gate  and  bandied  words  with  the  sentry 
who  had  been  posted  there.  She  beheld  the  aides- 
de-camp  dashing  wildly  down  toward  the  hollow 
or  away  to  Reichshofen  or  Bitche.  The  ground 
trembled  as  the  rolling  guns  were  dragged  upward 
to  the  heights.  The  horsemen,  splashed  from  head 
to  foot  with  mud,  went  by  doggedly  to  their  camp 
in  the  valley.  A  great  sound,  rising  and  falling, 
as  the  murmur  of  an  angry  sea,  was  heard  all  day, 
even  in  the  thickets  of  the  heights.  The  drench- 
ing rain  could  not  check  the  sound,  nor  any  door 
shut  it  out.  The  very  air  quivered  with  the  echoes 
of  turmoil  and  of  movement.  Men  turned  from 
camp  to  camp  as  though  no  place  of  rest  was 


The  Hussars  are  at  Gunstett    109 

anywhere  to  be  found.  Peasants  fled  to  remote 
glades  of  the  mountains,  with  children  clinging  to 
their  knees;  women  wept  for  the  homes  which 
would  be  homes  to  them  no  more. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  Edmond  returned  to 
the  chalet.  The  rain  had  soaked  through  his 
cloak,  and  his  weary  horse  could  scarce  stand  upon 
its  legs.  He  met  his  child-wife  at  the  gate  and 
led  her  quickly  to  the  house.  She  saw  that  the 
day  had  changed  him  strangely.  He  was  thinking 
of  something  else  even  while  he  greeted  her. 

"  The  Colonel  will  not  come,"  he  said.  "  He 
has  gone  to  join  de  Failly.  I  am  left  at  Worth 
with  a  squadron.  We  have  ridden  all  day  on  a 
reconnaissance  towards  Seltz,  but  there  are  no 
Germans  there.  God  knows,  I  wish  you  were  not 
here,  mignonne  —  I  blame  myself,  but  how  can 
you  go  now  ?  There  is  not  a  road  which  is  free  — 
not  any  one  to  whom  I  can  trust  you.  The  troops 
come  in  every  hour  and  the  battle  is  for  Sunday. 
My  God  —  if  it  should  be  here  !  " 

He  stood  for  a  moment  holding  both  her  hands 
and  looking  with  earnest  eyes  upon  her  laughing 
face.  The  scarlet  plumes  drooped,  wet  and  sodden, 
over  the  dulled  brass  of  his  czapska.  The  silver 
epaulettes  were  tarnished;  there  was  mud  even 
upon  his  tunic  ;  but,  more  than  all,  his  sunken 
cheeks  and  weary  step  spoke  eloquently  of  his 


no       The  Garden  of  Swords 

fatigue.  A  great  pity  for  him  came  upon  her,  and 
she  drew  him  into  the  brightly  lighted  room,  and 
would  not  hear  of  his  apprehensions. 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  "  of  course  I  shall  not 
go  away.  As  if  it  mattered.  And  Guillaumette 
is  here.  She  has  been  giving  wine  to  the  troopers 
all  day.  When  her  Gaspard  goes  to  Berlin  he  is 
to  bring  her  a  mug.  There  will  be  nothing  to 
drink  in  Worth  by  that  time.  We  shall  have 
to  go  to  Paris  or  die  of  thirst.  As  if  it  were  not 
enough  to  have  you  home  again." 

She  was  talking  and  laughing  all  the  time,  and 
with  deft  fingers  helping  him  to  change  his  sodden 
clothes.  She  did  not  ask  him  if  the  news  of  yester- 
day were  true,  for  she  feared  his  answer  to  her 
question.  Every  effort  of  hers  was  one  to  remind 
him  that  he  had  come  home  again.  The  bright 
lights  in  her  drawing-room,  the  fire  Guillaumette 
quickly  kindled  there,  the  little  dinner  they  had 
thought  so  much  about,  the  hundred  gestures 
of  affection  and  of  love  compelled  him  to  forget 
the  grim  scenes  without.  He  shut  them  from 
his  memory  for  a  short  hour,  and  thought  only 
of  the  childish  face  lifted  to  his,  of  the  days 
of  happiness  which  the  mountains  had  given  to 
him. 

"  It  is  good  to  have  you  to  myself,  mignonne," 
he  said  when  dinner  was  done  and  she  had  rolled 


The  Hussars  are  at  Gunstett    1 1 1 

his  cigarette,  and  lay  curled  up  on  the  rug  at 
his  feet.  "  I  feared  that  Tripard  would  come, 
and  the  others,  but  they  are  gone  by  to  Bitche. 
Michel  has  all  the  cavalry  he  wants  for  anything 
we  are  likely  to  do  here.  There  are  the  two 
cuirassier  regiments  under  Bonnemain,  and  Sep- 
tueil  has  the  light  brigade.  You  remember 
Septueil  at  Strasburg  —  the  man  who  always  told 
you  that  you  were  a  Prussian  at  heart  and  would 
never  marry  a  French  soldier.  He  rode  in  to-day, 
and  Duhesme  is  with  him.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
people  down  below  —  there  are  no  more  vineyards 
now,  and  you  could  not  find  an  empty  house  in 
the  villages  if  you  offered  ten  thousand  francs 
for  it.  I  met  old  Mere  Bartres  as  I  was  coming 
up.  The  Turcos  have  turned  her  out  of  the 
cottage  with  the  little  ones  —  she  was  going  to 
sleep  in  the  woods,  but  I  sent  her  to  the  stables. 
We  must  do  what  we  can  for  all  these  poor 
people  now.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst 
and  we  are  beaten — " 

She  laughed  at  him,  and  put  her  arms  about  his 
knees. 

"  If  we  are  beaten,  dear  —  ah  !  if  the  mountains 
fly.  Who  is  coming  to  Worth  when  the  army 
is  here,  and  you  are  here,  and  —  I  am  here  !  The 
ride  has  tired  you.  I  know  what  it  is  —  oh,  so 
well  — to  be  tired  with  all  the  world,  and  to  think 


1 1 2       The  Garden  of  Swords 

that  everything  is  against  you,  and  that  to- 
morrow will  be  the  deluge.  But  when  to-morrow 
comes  you  get  up  early,  and  the  sun  shines,  and 
you  forget  what  it  was  all  about,  and  there  is  no 
deluge.  I  used  to  be  like  that  often  when  I  was 
at  the  convent  in  Strasburg.  The  bells  were  an 
enemy ;  I  hated  the  old  man  who  sat  at  the 
gate;  but  when  the  gate  opened  and  old  Helene 
was  there,  and  I  went  to  the  Place  Kleber  and 
saw  you  upon  your  horse,  and  all  the  lances  of 
the  regiment,  and  heard  the  music  everywhere  — 
I  was  glad  that  there  had  been  those  other  days. 
If  the  sun  -shone  every  day,  there  would  be  no 
summer.  And  our  summer  is  to  come.  It  will 
not  matter  when  or  where  —  but  we  shall  tell 
each  other  about  to-night,  and  that  will  make  the 
sun  shine  for  us." 

She  talked  bravely,  but  her  words  were  vain. 
That  spirit  of  hope  which  had  animated  him 
yesterday  was  his  friend  no  more.  He  was 
telling  himself,  though  he  whispered  no  word  of 
it  to  her,  that  Douay  had  been  defeated  at 
Weissenburg,  and  that  his  division  fled,  panic- 
stricken,  through  the  hills.  The  same  army 
which  had  defeated  Douay  might  be  at  the  gates 
of  Worth  to-morrow.  What  answer  would  Mac- 
Mahon  give  to  it  —  ah,  what  ? 

"  I  do  not  fear    for  the  men,"   he   said,  when 


The  Hussars  are  at  Gunstett    113 

she  had  rolled  him  another  cigarette,  and  he  had 
listened  a  moment  to  the  thunder  of  that  mighty 
human  avalanche  in  the  valley  below ;  "  it  is 
those  who  lead.  Why  do  we  want  biscuit  even 
here  on  our  side  of  the  frontier  ?  Why  are  the 
magazines  at  Strasburg  empty  ?  Why  does  no 
one  know  anything  of  the  Emperor's  plans  ?  They 
tell  us  that  Douay  was  surprised,  yet  whose  fault 
was  that  ?  There  are  no  finer  fellows  than  the 
troops  down  yonder  in  all  the  world.  If  they  are 
beaten,  then  God  help  France  and  us  !  " 

She  refused  to  respond  to  his  earnestness,  and 
still  wished  to  lead  him  to  other  thoughts. 

"  Oh  !  We  are  in  the  convent  to-night,"  she 
exclaimed  impulsively,  "the  bell  will  ring  pre- 
sently, and  grandmere  Helene  will  come.  To- 
morrow there  will  be  the  feast,  and  I  shall  see 
the  lances  go  by  and  hear  the  music.  And 
Edmond  will  be  there  —  he  will  have  forgotten 
the  deluge." 

The  note  of  it  was  jest,  but  she  changed  it 
on  an  impulse  and  spoke  of  her  own  great  love  for 
him. 

"  We  have  always  ourselves,  dearest,"  she  said  ; 
"  nothing  can  change  us.  There  will  always  be 
our  home  —  and  our  love." 

There  would  always  be  her  love  !  Ay,  indeed, 
as  he  looked  down  upon  the  little  face,  and  the 
8 


H4       The  Garden  of  Swords 

watching  eyes,  and  the  pitiful  mouth,  down  at  the 
long  hair  falling  upon  his  knees,  and  the  white 
hands  of  the  child-wife  that  destiny  had  sent  to 
him,  he  said  that  love  should  ever  be  his  recom- 
pense. And  he  slept  with  his  arms  about  her  and 
forgot  that  the  enemies  of  France  were  upon  the 
fields  of  France,  and  that  to-morrow  the  dead  would 
be  numbered  and  many  a  home  would  mourn  a 
son,  and  many  a  wife  would  listen  for  a  voice  she 
nevermore  would  hear. 

At  dawn  a  trooper,  riding  madly  up  from  the 
camp,  awoke  him  with  an  urgent  message. 

"  The  Prussians  are  in  the  town ;  the  hussars 
are  at  Gunstett  —  for  God's  sake  come  quickly, 
Captain  —  the  battle  is  to-day  !  " 


The  Prussians  are  in  the  town  ! ' 


BOOK  II 

Battle 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    BLOOD-RED    DAY    OF    WORTH 

A  FIGURE  as  of  the  blood-red  day  seemed  to  pass 
through  the  sleeping  woods  and  to  awaken  them 
with  a  voice  that  terrified  and  a  command  which 
quickened  the  laggard's  heart.  Above  the  mur- 
mur of  leaves  and  the  babbling  of  the  brooks  the 
cry  "Aux  armes !  "  brought  men  staggering  to  their 
feet  from  the  stupor  of  dreams  now  broken,  from 
victories,  perchance,  that  sleep  had  numbered. 
There  was  still  the  shivering  woodland  life,  the 
dark  places  of  the  thickets,  the  merry  splash  of 
streams,  the  note  of  birds ;  but  these  were  things 
apart.  The  herald  of  the  breaking  day  had 
breathed  upon  the  passions  of  those  who  slept ;  the 
rising  sun  shone  upon  the  faces  of  fifty  thousand 
whose  pulses  quickened  already  with  the  ferocity 
of  combat.  As  fire  leaping  from  brake  to  brake  and 
dell  to  dell,  that  spirit  of  the  battle  moved.  Chil- 
dren ran  from  it  to  their  homes  as  before  the  out- 
posts of  a  spectre  army.  Women  pressed  babes  to 


n6       The  Garden  of  Swords 

their  breasts  and  prayed  to  the  saints.  From  the 
height  of  Froeschweiler  in  the  north  to  the  marshy 
brookland  by  Gunstett  in  the  south  that  thunder  of 
the  new  day  rolled.  To  arms  !  The  very  sky,  in 
changing  lights  of  crimson  and  of  purple  and  of 
grey-black  cloud,  gave  canopies  of  storm  to  the 
tumult  that  it  looked  upon. 

To  Beatrix,  standing  at  the  gate  of  the  chalet 
as  the  night  merged  into  day,  the  torrent  of  sounds 
was  as  some  cataclysm  which  swept  away  all 
thought  of  self,  of  her  own  life  and  her  own 
safety.  She  saw  the  things  about  her ;  she  be- 
held men  running  wildly  through  the  woods  ;  she 
could  have  touched  the  mud-stained  horses  of  the 
cuirassiers  ;  the  dark  faces  of  the  Africans  looked 
into  her  own  ;  the  swinging,  impetuous  march  of 
infantry  delighted  her  —  yet  the  meaning  of  these 
things,  the  reality  of  it  all,  the  import  of  it  was 
not  realised.  There  stood  her  own  little  house 
with  its  girdle  of  tree  and  thicket ;  there  below 
were  the  vineyards  and  the  rivers.  War  and 
battle  must  be  something  far  distant  from  the 
homes  of  these  children  that  she  knew.  And 
Edmond  !  The  jeopardy  of  her  husband's  life 
she  dared  not  contemplate.  An  irony  of  fate 
which  had  given  her  this  good  measure  of  happi- 
ness that  she  might  suffer  through  the  years  was 
not  to  be  believed  in. 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth  117 

Edmond  had  exhorted  her  to  leave  the  chalet 
instantly  and  ride  westward  to  Saverne.  It  had 
been  his  last  word  to  her  as  he  lifted  her  to  his 
saddle  for  a  lover's  farewell.  She  gave  him  half 
a  promise  ;  and  when  he  turned  at  the  bend  of 
the  road  to  repeat  his  wish,  her  laughing  face 
answered  it.  He  did  not  see  that  other  look,  the 
tears  lingering  in  the  pretty  eyes,  the  girl's  true 
self  written  there  in  lines  of  grief  untold.  The 
road  hid  the  aftermath  of  farewell  from  his  sight. 
"  We  shall  drive  the  Prussians  to  the  Rhine,  and 
you  will  see  me  to-night,"  he  had  said  with  a  new 
courage  of  the  morning.  She  knew  not  that  many 
days  of  grief  must  pass  before  she  heard  his  voice 
again,  and  that  when  he  came  back  to  her  it  would 
be  to  turn  from  her  caress  and  to  tell  her  that  love 
was  no  more. 

All  her  thought  was  of  the  moment ;  of  the 
awakening  in  the  woods,  of  the  news  that  the 
trooper  had  brought.  The  Germans  were  at 
Gunstett.  Then  there  would  be  a  battle  beyond 
the  river !  Men  would  die.  A  nation  would  hear 
of  victory  to-morrow.  That  mighty  host  of  armed 
men,  whose  voice  was  the  thunder  of  the  hills, 
stood  sentinel  of  the  homes  of  France.  She  had 
a  great  pride  in  the  thought  that  Edmond  was 
one  of  those  to  whom  the  children  looked  so  con- 
fidently. And  he  would  return  victorious  at  sun- 


n8       The  Garden  of  Swords 

set.  The  sword  of  France  was  drawn.  It  would 
never  be  sheathed  until  the  honour  of  France  was 
saved. 

Day  had  not  broken  when  the  trooper  waked 
them  from  their  sleep,  nor  was  the  sun  lifted 
above  the  hills  when  Edmond  rode  down  to  his 
regiment.  She  watched  the  spreading  light  while 
it  showed  her  the  rain-drops  glistening  upon  the 
leaves,  and  the  little  pools  which  the  showers  of 
the  night  had  filled  again.  After  the  first  mad 
awakening  a  hush  fell  upon  the  forest ;  the  flowers 
lifted  their  heads  anew,  the  trembling  leaves  made 
their  voices  heard  —  it  was  the  Niederwald  of  the 
old  home,  the  Niederwald  of  solitude  remote  and 
the  haven  of  rest.  She  lingered  at  the  gate,  hoping 
she  knew  not  what.  When  Guillaumette  came 
to  tell  her  that  the  coffee  was  ready,  she  did  not 
hear  her.  Her  thoughts  were  away  in  Strasburg, 
at  the  altar  of  the  Minster  where  her  love-vow 
had  been  spoken. 

"You  called  me,  Guillaumette?" 

"If  I  called  you,  Madame  —  when  the  coffee 
spoils  and  the  bread  is  hot  and  the  clock  strikes 
six  !  —  " 

"  Six  o'clock  —  is  it  six  o'clock  ?  Then  I  have 
been  here  an  hour,  Guillaumette." 

A  strange  voice  chimed  in  with  the  answer  : 

"  To  the  tick,  Madame.      I  have  watched  you 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth  119 

from  my  windows  —  it  is  impossible  to  look  another 
way  when  Madame  Lefort  stands  at  her  garden 
gate.  And  pardon  me  —  I  have  said, '  She  is  wait- 
ing for  her  pony ;  she  is  going  to  Saverne  when 
that  rascal  Jacob  is  ready.' ' 

She  turned  to  see  old  Jules  Picard,  snuff-box 
in  hand,  astride  his  great  weedy  horse.  He  had 
ridden  up  from  the  chateau  at  her  husband's 
request,  and  he  began  already  to  take  fatherly 
possession  of  her. 

"Madame,"  he  continued,  shutting  his  golden 
box  with  a  snap,  "  Guillaumette  is  right.  We  will 
take  a  cup  of  coffee  and  then  we  will  ride  to 
Saverne.  Those  fellows  la-bas  are  going  to  fight. 
The  glory  will  come  afterwards.  We  shall  return 
for  that  —  you  and  I.  There  is  always  the  glory 
for  those  who  know  how  to  come  back.  And 
we  shall  find  Monsieur  a  colonel.  I  have  just 
passed  him  on  the  road  and  told  him  so.  '  Madame 
and  I  are  going  to  Saverne  while  you  send  those 
Prussians  to  the  devil,'  I  said.  He  is  of  my  opinion. 
He  has  confidence  in  me,  Monsieur  votre  mart. 
And  Madame  will  share  it.  I  have  no  doubt  of 
it.  She  has  ordered  her  pony  already.  She  will 
give  old  Jules  Picard  a  cup  of  coffee  —  and  then, 
en  avant.  Oh,  my  child,  what  a  cry  is  that  when 
your  back  is  towards  the  enemy  and  the  guns 
are  beyond  the  hills  !  " 


I2O       The  Garden  of  Swords 

He  climbed  from  his  horse  laboriously  and 
stood  beside  her,  his  enormous  sombrero  hat  in 
his  hand.  There  was  no  braver  man  in  France, 
and  she  knew  it,  but  she  laughed  at  his  assump- 
tion of  her  assent  and  did  not  seek  to  hide  that 
laughter  from  him. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  we  will  have  our  coffee  in 
the  garden.  We  shall  see  the  valley  from  there. 
And  we  can  talk  about  Saverne  afterwards.  You 
will  stay  to  dejeuner,  Monsieur  Picard  ?  " 

The  old  man  raised  his  hands  melodramatically. 

"  Madame,"  he  asked,  "  do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  And  you  will  not  ride  to  Saverne  ?  " 

"  Not  for  all  the  soldiers  in  Prussia." 

"Then  God  be  praised  for  His  mercies." 

"  You  mean  —  " 

"  I  mean,  my  child,  that  here  is  a  brave  heart, 
and  wherever  a  brave  heart  beats  there  is  the  love 
of  old  Jules  Picard." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  His  bantering 
mood  had  passed.  From  the  valley  below  there 
came  the  dull  echoing  roar  of  artillery.  An  aide- 
de-camp,  with  mud  even  upon  his  face,  went  by 
at  a  gallop,  and  disappeared  in  the  hither  wood. 
Some  Turcos  came  down  the  hill  at  a  double, 
crying  to  each  other  that  the  Prussians  were 
crossing  the  river.  In  the  wood  at  the  bend  of 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth  121 

the  road  they  could  distinguish  between  the  trees 
the  red  trousers  and  blue  coats  of  infantrymen. 
A  bivouac  had  been  broken  up  there.  Fires  still 
smoked,  but  the  cooking-pots  were  overturned, 
and  the  grass  trampled  in  the  haste  of  assembly. 
A  pair  of  horses  drawing  a  battery  caisson  over- 
powered their  driver  and  dashed  blindly  down  the 
hill  to  the  Strasburg  road.  The  thunder  of  their 
hoofs  was  to  be  heard  for  a  long  time.  Then 
silence  fell  again  upon  the  thickets. 

Old  Jules  Picard  was  gaily  dressed  that  morn- 
ing. A  coat  of  dark  blue  carried  the  button  of  an 
order;  his  vest  was  in  the  old  style,  with  em- 
broidery upon  it.  He  wore  smart  gaiters  and 
white  breeches  ;  a  diamond  circlet  sparkled  about  his 
cravat.  The  excitement  that  he  suffered  betrayed 
itself  in  gesture  alone.  He  talked  incessantly,  that 
the  others  might  share  his  confidence.  And 
Beatrix,  in  her  turn,  listened  to  him  wonderingly. 
This,  then,  was  the  day  of  battle  !  The  unchang- 
ing forest  seemed  to  mock  the  thought.  The 
distant  roar  of  the  awakening  artillery  was  as  an 
echo  of  ill  speaking  beyond  the  river. 

They  took  their  coffee  in  the  arbour  of  the 
roses.  Looking  down  thence  over  the  woods  and 
the  vineyards  they  could  see  the  river  at  Gunstett, 
the  mill  in  the  marsh,  the  distant  heights  whereon 
the  Prussians  lurked,  the  white  villages  and  the 


122       The  Garden  of  Swords 

fields  of  maize.  Everywhere  the  eye  could  find  a 
panorama  of  wood  and  hill  land.  Such  troops  as 
were  to  be  perceived  appeared  neither  hasting  nor 
active.  A  few  puffs  of  smoke  hung  above  the 
opposing  heights.  The  horses  of  cavalry,  even 
the  sturdy  figures  of  cuirassiers  passed  in  and  out 
between  the  trees.  But  there  was  no  panoply  of 
war  —  no  charge  and  countercharge.  The  inter- 
val of  waiting  had  come ;  the  hush  before  the 
storm. 

"  Monsieur  is  la-bas,  in  the  wood,"  said  old 
Picard,  as  Beatrix,  with  trembling  hand,  filled  him 
a  cup  of  coffee ;  4l  we  shall  see  him  presently,  and 
he  will  take  dejeuner  with  us.  I  do  not  account 
this  a  day  of  any  importance.  You  were  wise  to 
remain,  Madame  —  wise  and  brave." 

She  smiled  at  his  compliment. 

"  I  am  brave  because  there  is  no  danger.  You 
think  that  there  is  none,  then,  Monsieur  Picard  ?  " 

There  was  a  note  of  anxiety  in  the  question 
which  she  could  not  hide  from  him.  No  moment 
spared  her.  A  voice  said  always  that  Edmond 
might  never  return  to  the  chalet. 

Old  Picard  observed  it  and  turned  to  banter 
again. 

11 1  think  it,  Madame  ?  —  I  think  nothing.  That 
is  for  the  generals  of  France,  who  will  begin  pre- 
sently. Why  should  I  do  their  work  when  there 


The  Blood- Red  Day  of  Worth   123 

is  good  coffee  at  the  Niederwald,  and  Madame  Lefort 
is  happy  there  ?  I  am  the  man  in  the  fauteuil. 
When  the  play  begins  I  will  applaud  or  hiss  as  the 
mood  takes  me." 

He  dipped  his  bread  into  the  bowl  and  made  a 
pretence  of  eating  ravenously.  But  her  own  cup 
was  unlifted.  She  gazed  over  the  valley  with  eyes 
full  of  pity  for  France  and  her  people,  and  the 
children  of  the  woods. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  I 
cannot  believe  that  men  are  to  die  to-day  —  " 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,  my  child.  They  die  every 
day.  Is  our  coffee  less  good  for  that  ?  Ask  Mon- 
sieur when  he  comes  home  to-night  —  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  God  grant  that  he  will  come  home,  Monsieur 
Picard  ! " 

The  old  man  stood  up  and  bared  his  head  to 
the  generous  sunshine. 

"Amen  to  that,  my  child  — God  save  all  dear 
to  us." 

For  a  little  while  there  was  silence  between 
them,  but  anon,  a  thunderous  report  of  cannon 
began  to  resound  on  their  own  side  of  the  stream, 
and  at  the  first  discharge  both  rose  to  their  feet. 
When  the  smoke  from  the  guns  had  rolled  away 
they  could  see  the  river  again.  Little  dark  figures, 
the  figures  of  Bavarians,  were  on  its  banks  now. 


124       The  Garden  of  Swords 

All  about  the  old  mill  in  the  marsh,  puffs  of  white 
smoke  were  making  clouds  for  the  cloudless  day. 

Old  Jules  Picard  watched  the  scene  with  devour- 
ing eyes.  The  lid  of  his  snuff-box  snapped 
incessantly. 

"They  are  Prussians,  my  child,"  he  exclaimed; 
"they  are  crossing  the  river  to  kill  those  who 
defend  our  homes.  Some  of  them  will  not  go 
back.  I  count  ten  —  eleven  —  twelve.  Ah,  one 
is  up  again  !  And  it  is  at  the  mill,  then.  Ma  foi, 
if  my  eyes  were  not  so  old  !  " 

He  stood  quite  still  with  his  excitement  for  a 
moment,  and  then  turned  eagerly  to  her. 

"  It  would  be  a  mile  from  here  where  we  could 
see  it,  Madame.  A  mile  nearer  to  Monsieur,  votre 
man.  He  has  forbidden  it,  but  you  may  wish  it. 
Ah,  Madame,  if  you  should  wish  it !  " 

A  strange  light  filled  her  eyes.  Woman  that 
she  was,  a  desire  of  battle  was  already  in  her  heart. 
She  would  see  Edmond  's  victory.  She  would  be 
nearer  to  him. 

"  Where  you  will,"  she  said  quickly,  rt  if  only 
the  day  could  end  —  now.  If  only  one  could 
know  — " 

He  led  her  by  the  hand  from  the  garden,  and 
they  brought  her  pony  to  the  gate. 

"  I  prescribe  knowledge,  Madame,"  said  he. 
"  It  is  those  who  wait  that  suffer." 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth   125 

Side  by  side  the  old  man  encouraging  her,  the 
girl  very  silent,  yet  with  courage  in  her  heart, 
they  passed  through  the  woods  towards  that  height 
above  the  Sauer  where  the  battle-field  would  reward 
them.  For  some  way  the  thickets  muffled  all 
sounds  to  their  ears.  They  met  a  regiment  of  the 
line  marching  quickly.  Here  and  there  in  the 
woods  infantry  stood  waiting ;  some  busy  with 
their  rifles,  some  white  with  fear,  some  with  prayers 
upon  their  lips.  Artillery  waggons  thundered  down 
the  road  to  the  valley.  Where  the  woods  were 
riven  apart  by  gully  and  chasm  the  vineyards  could 
be  seen,  green  and  golden  in  the  sunlight.  The 
roar  of  battle  burst  upon  them  in  such  moments. 
It  was  lost  once  more  when  again  they  entered  the 
glade.  And  the  path  carried  them  upward  now. 
They  struck  upon  a  woodland  track  so  narrow 
that  old  Picard  must  follow  her  at  hazard,  com- 
plaining of  his  horse.  At  the  end  of  it  the 
thickets  terminated  abruptly  in  a  little  plateau  of 
grass  land.  The  battle-field  of  Worth  was  before 
them.  They  looked  down  upon  it  as  from  a 
watch-tower  of  the  heights. 

The  valley  spread  out  below  them  as  a  golden 
river  in  the  heart  of  the  hills  intensely  green. 
They  could  see  the  town  of  Worth,  the  river 
winding  through  it,  the  great  outstanding  mount  at 
Froeschweiler.  Villages  stood  up  as  little  white 


126       The  Garden  of  Swords 

pictures  against  the  background  of  maize  and 
vines.  There  were  brooks  and  mills  at  the  foot 
of  the  slope  before  them  —  but,  everywhere  along 
those  miles  of  valley  road,  the  blue  tunics  and  the 
red  breeches  of  the  soldiers  of  France  were  visible. 
Now  dashing  forward  at  the  charge ;  now  deploy- 
ing and  seeking  the  shelter  of  mound  and  hill ; 
now  marching  through  the  villages;  those  little 
blue  and  red  figures  were  as  men  that  moved  upon 
some  mighty  board.  Impossible  to  believe  that 
they  were  to  slay  and  be  slain ;  that  the  destinies 
of  a  nation  followed  the  puffs  of  white  smoke  and 
the  concatenation  of  terrible  sounds  which  marked 
their  path.  For  those  upon  the  heights,  distance 
put  a  mask  upon  the  face  of  death.  The  girl's 
heart  beat  fast,  but  it  was  with  hope.  The  eyes 
of  the  old  man  were  lighted  as  the  eyes  of  an 
animal  which  hunts  its  prey. 

"  Did  not  I  say  that  I  prescribed  knowledge, 
Madame  ?  "  he  cried,  pointing  joyfully  with  his 
lean  finger  to  the  spectacle  below  ;  "  and  here  is 
the  medicine.  Look  well  at  it,  for  you  will  never 
see  its  like.  The  army  of  France  —  it  is  there. 
The  glory  of  France  —  it  is  there  also.  You  can- 
not understand  that,  my  child,  you  who  are  not  a 
Frenchwoman.  You  do  not  know  why  an  old 
man's  cheeks  are  red.  Ma  fol — that  I  must 
sit  here —  I,  whose  father  was  at  Jena." 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth  127 

She  did  not  hear  him.  There  was  a  hard  ex- 
pression upon  her  face  very  foreign  to  it. 

"  Where  is  the  cavalry  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Where 
is  Edmond  ? " 

He  pointed  southward  to  a  thicket  distant  from 
them  a  mile  or  more. 

"  Lartigue  is  there  with  the  eighth  and  ninth 
cuirassiers  and  two  squadrons  of  the  lancers. 
Your  husband  is  with  him,  be  sure  of  it.  He 
could  not  find  a  safer  place.  There  will  be  noth- 
ing for  him  to  do  to-day.  Look  how  those  black 
fellows  run.  Ma  fol !  —  they  are  crossing  the 
river  again  —  those  that  have  the  legs.  They  fall 
like  the  trees  —  I  count  fifty.  Ah,  what  a  thing 
to  tell  your  children,  Madame,  that  the  Prussians 
ran  at  Worth." 

She  had  been  looking  at  the  wood  wherein  the 
lancers  stood,  but  now  she  turned,  and  down  at 
the  valley's  heart  the  spectacle  rewarded  her.  A 
great  veil  of  smoke  was  lifted  from  the  mill  in 
the  marsh,  and  beneath  it  she  beheld  the  red  and 
blue  line  advancing  and  still  advancing,  while 
black  figures  were  seen  to  stumble  and  to  fall, 
and  the  roar  of  the  guns  upon  the  height  was  as 
a  crash  of  doom.  A  surpassing  joy  of  the  glory 
of  France  came  to  her.  These  men  who  advanced 
with  terrible  cries  and  bayonets  brandished,  they 
were  driving  the  enemy  from  the  place  where 


128       The  Garden  of  Swords 

Edmond  stood.  She  cared  not  that  dead  and 
dying  lay  in  their  path.  The  faint  cries  of  ulti- 
mate agony  which  were  heard  at  the  watching- 
place  were  nothing  to  her.  Edmond  was  not 
there.  The  victory  was  being  won.  He  would 
come  back  to  her. 

Old  Jules  Picard  talked  always,  but  she  did  not 
listen  to  him.  The  wavering  lines,  retreating, 
advancing,  fascinated  her  beyond  any  spectacle 
she  had  ever  beheld.  A  battery  of  artillery,  crash- 
ing through  the  wood  behind  them,  seemed  a  new 
tribute  to  the  glory  of  her  new  country.  She  did 
not  quail  when  the  guns  belched  flame  and  the 
shot  hurtled  toward  the  distant  hills.  The  answer- 
ing note  from  the  German  guns  beyond  the  Sauer 
inspired  her  to  an  emotion  as  of  defiance.  A 
shell  of  theirs  cutting  the  branches  of  a  tree  and 
sending  a  shower  of  brown  leaves  upon  her  pony 
left  her  with  flaming  cheeks  and  laughter  in  her 
eyes. 

"  They  run  away  —  they  run  from  Worth," 
she  cried  delightedly,  "and  they  are  firing  at  us! 
Is  it  not  splendid,  Monsieur  Picard  ?  Do  you  not 
understand  now  why  men  can  say  that  war  is 
a  noble  thing  ?  Oh,  I  do.  If  one  could  re- 
member the  children  and  the  homes  of  France 
and  forget  everything  else.  Who  could  be  a 
coward  then  ?  " 


The  Blood-Red  Day  of  Worth   129 

She  sat  with  glistening  eyes  and  fast-beating 
heart,  and  he  applauded  her. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  if  it  were  the  children  of 
France  and  not  the  adventurers  !  If  one  were 
quite  sure  that  the  Prussians  ran,  Madame." 

"  But  I  see  them  !  " 

"  As  the  tide  of  the  sea,  my  child  —  now  a 
little  way  receding,  now  surging  again;  but  the 
tenth  wave,  that  is  the  fellow.  Look  well  at 
Worth  and  tell  me  what  you  make  of  it.  Those 
black  helmets  were  beyond  the  river  an  hour  ago. 
Now  they  are  coming  through  the  vineyards  — 
they  creep  up  inch  by  inch;  the  dead  lie  thick, 
but  the  living  do  not  heed  them.  Is  the  battle 
won  because  our  soldiers  are  brave,  because  there 
are  blue  coats  and  red  breeches  in  the  valleys  ? 
Ah  !  —  if  the  wish  could  help  us." 

A  strange  gloom  took  possession  of  him.  He 
sat  very  still  upon  his  horse,  and  she,  in  turn, 
began  for  the  first  time  to  experience  a  vague 
doubt  which  she  had  not  known  before,  even  when 
Edmond  left  her  at  the  chalet.  How,  indeed,  if 
a  nation  should  rejoice  upon  a  victory  to-morrow 
and  that  nation  should  not  be  France  ?  How, 
if  the  Prussians  really  were  creeping  up  those 
declivities  towards  the  woods  and  her  home  ? 
The  belching  guns,  which  made  the  earth  tremble 
about  her,  were  no  longer  living  forces  for  the 
9 


130       The  Garden  of  Swords 

glory  of  her  country.  She  began  to  fear  them. 
She  started  when  a  spent  bullet  brought  down  a 
branch  from  the  tree  beside  her.  She  was  con- 
scious of  danger,  and  it  appalled  her. 

"  Monsieur  Picard,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  —  I 
believe  I  am  afraid." 

He  awoke  from  his  lethargy. 

"You  are  right  to  be  afraid,  my  child;  never- 
theless —  " 

He  half  wheeled  his  horse  and  then  turned  him 
back  again. 

"  Nevertheless,  Madame,  there  is  Captain  Lefort 
with  his  regiment.  They  are  about  to  charge. 
Do  you  wish  to  go  now  ?  " 

She  did  not  speak.  An  icy  chill  crept  over  her. 
She  feared  to  look,  yet  dare  not  turn  her  eyes 
away.  The  ambulance  passed  close  by  her,  with 
a  wounded  gunner,  his  breast  open  and  bleeding, 
to  be  seen  in  the  winding  sheet.  A  great  pity 
for  the  man  brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  If  they 
should  carry  her  lover  as  that  brave  fellow  was 
being  carried  ! 

Trumpets  were  blaring  then  in  the  valley  below. 
It  was  the  crisis  of  the  day.  The  cuirassiers,  and 
with  them  the  squadrons  of  the  lancers,  rode  out 
from  the  shelter  of  the  woods  to  charge  the 
Prussians  who  were  swarming  in  the  gardens  above 
the  villages. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE    DEATH    RIDE 

GENERAL  MICHEL  had  been  in  the  woods  of  the 
Niederwald  since  dawn.  Two  regiments  of  cuiras- 
siers were  at  his  command,  and  those  squadrons 
of  lancers  which  Tripard  had  left  for  scouting 
duty.  The  General  did  not  doubt  that  all  the 
work  he  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  engage 
the  few  daring  hussars  who  had  appeared  above 
the  village  of  Gunstett  and  thence  opened  fire 
on  the  valley  land  below.  Imitating  MacMahon, 
his  chief,  he  believed  that  the  army  of  the  Vosges 
had  encountered  no  other  enemy  than  the  out- 
posts of  the  Crown  Prince's  army.  The  day 
undeceived  him,  but  not  until  twelve  o'clock 
had  struck  and  the  sun  was  hot  upon  the  vine- 
yards. 

All  morning  the  troopers  were  in  the  saddle 
waiting.  Around  them  the  overturned  pans  and 
scattered  fires  spoke  of  breakfast  interrupted  and 
of  hunger  continuing.  Their  moral  was  beyond 
question.  They  asked  only  that  they  might 
charge  those  spiked  helmets  and  drive  them 


132       The  Garden  of  Swords 

across  the  Rhine.  They  thought  that  no  in- 
fantry the  world  had  ever  seen  could  withstand 
the  cuirassiers  of  France.  The  lesson  to  be 
learned  was  bitter  —  the  first  of  many  they  must 
master. 

It  was  just  light  when  Lefort  joined  his  men, 
and  found  the  laughing  Giraud  full  of  the  good 
news,  and  of  those  promises  of  hope  which  youth 
can  give  abundantly.  The  boyish  voice  and  un- 
questioning belief  were  a  tonic  of  the  morning. 
His  own  night  had  been  such  a  night  of  fore- 
boding. Fear  for  France  and  for  his  child-wife 

O 

at  the  chalet  had  pursued  him  even  in  his  sleep. 
But  here,  in  the  green  wood,  with  the  big  fellows 
on  their  fine  horses ;  here,  where  the  helmets 
shone  like  gold  and  the  chargers  pawed  the 
glistening  grass,  and  all  the  talk  was  of  victory, 
he  drank  in  a  great  draught  of  courage,  and  re- 
membered the  purpose  of  his  life,  and  all  that 
his  life's  task  demanded  of  him.  Those  friends 
of  his,  they  would  drive  the  Prussians  to  the 
Rhine !  Beatrix  would  go  to  Saverne  with  old 
Jules  Picard  and  Jacob.  He  would  write  to  her 
that  night  and  tell  her  of  the  victory.  And 
Giraud  gave  him  such  a  welcome  : 

O 

"  Ah,  Captain  —  you  come,  then,  in  good  time. 
And  Madame,  she  is  up  there  still  ?  Well,  it  is 
good  to  fight  like  that.  She  will  stay,  of  course  ! 


The  Death  Ride        .     133 

She  does  not  fear  all  the  hussars  in  Germany  — 
she  told  me  so.  If  only  those  others  were  like 
her!  But  they  run  —  they  have  been  running 
since  yesterday,  the  sheep.  There  is  not  a 
woman  in  Gunstett  now.  Have  you  breakfasted, 
Captain  ?  " 

A  trooper  took  his  horse,  and  Lefort  began 
to  pace  the  wood  with  the  lieutenant.  The 
cuirassiers  were  all  about,  figures  of  white  and 
gold  against  the  ripe  green  of  the  leaves.  Rifle 
shots  crepitated  in  the  distance.  There  was  a 
loom  of  smoke  above  Gunstett,  and  those  with 
strong  eyes  could  distinguish  the  black  figures 
of  the  Prussians,  or  count  the  daring  Uhlans  who 
rode  out  upon  the  heights  to  scan  the  opposing 
camps. 

"  The  outposts  of  the  eleventh,  Captain,"  ex- 
claimed Giraud  impulsively,  as  he  pointed  to  the 
figures  on  the  hills  ;  "  we  must  have  missed  them 
when  we  rode  out  yesterday.  The  General  speaks 
of  the  heads  of  columns,  and  he  is  right.  There 
will  be  no  army  corps  here  to-day.  They  say 
that  the  Bavarians  are  in  force  at  Gorsdorf,  but 
Ducrot  is  there  and  Raoult  holds  Froeschweiler. 
It  will  be  a  strong  division  which  takes  Froesch- 
weiler !  Look  at  the  slopes  of  it.  And  the 
engineers  have  been  at  work.  If  the  battle  must 
be,  to-day  is  our  time.  We  shall  find  no  better 


134     •  The  Garden  of  Swords 

position.  And  we  have  sixty  thousand  men  in 
the  hills." 

"  I  doubt  that,"  said  Lefort  quickly.  "  We 
were  short  in  Strasburg,  and  our  numbers  can- 
not have  been  completed  here.  Why  do  the 
gunners  not  begin  ?  The  men  are  falling  yonder ; 
look  at  the  ambulances,  busy  already.  It  is  a 
good  position,  certainly,  for  those  who  defend. 
But  why  are  we  the  defenders  always  ?  It  was 
so  at  Wetssenburg,  they  tell  me.  You  cannot 
keep  up  the  moral  of  troops  who  must  always 
stand  for  targets.  Believe  me,  Giraud,  I  cannot 
help  seeing  these  things.  No  man,  who  is  not 
blind,  can  fail  to  see  that  we  have  neither  the 
men  nor  the  generals  to  do  any  of  those  things 
which  France  is  asking  us  to  do." 

The  lieutenant,  his  oldest  friend,  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  arm  in  a  gesture  of  affection. 

"  Mon  ami"  he  said,  "  if  it  is  as  you  say,  our 
work  is  to  alter  it.  But  is  it  ?  I  repeat,  look  at 
Froeschweiler.  You  could  hold  it  against  a  nation. 
When  the  time  for  advance  comes,  it  will  be  the 
cavalry  who  will  send  the  answer  to  Paris.  I 
know  well  how  you  feel  this  morning.  Madame 
is  up  there  in  your  home.  You  will  go  back 
to-night  to  tell  her  all  about  it.  She  can  see 
Froeschweiler  almost  from  your  gardens.  She 
will  count  the  Prussians  who  die.  Let  us  go 


The  Death  Ride  135 

and  breakfast  and  pledge  her  in  a  bottle  of 
champagne.  I  have  two  on  my  holsters  now. 
There  is  nothing  like  champagne  when  you  feel 
that  way.  I  know  it  —  and  I  have  not  a  little 
wife  waiting  for  me." 

The  hard  expression  passed  from  the  face  of 
Lefort. 

"  Confess/'  he  said,  "  how  many  wait  in 
Paris,  Giraud  —  to  how  many  did  you  write 
yesterday  ?  " 

The  lieutenant  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Come,  then,"  he  said,  "  why  do  we  fight  if  it 
is  not  to  tell  those  others  about  it  ?  Applause  is 
the  food  of  glory  —  I  do  not  want  to  grow  thin. 

D  J  D 

Let  us  breakfast,  man  ami^  and  drink  to  all  the 
pretty  ones  in  France." 

The  lancers  were  bivouacked  almost  upon  the 
north-west  edge  of  the  wood.  Lefort,  having 
exchanged  cheery  words  with  the  men  of  his  own 
company,  sat  down  upon  a  log  beneath  a  vast 
chestnut  tree  and  took  the  biscuits  and  the  wine 
his  young  comrade  offered  generously.  Away 
upon  his  left  hand  was  the  steep  hill  of  Froesch- 
weiler,  its  wooded  slopes  running  down  sharply 
toward  the  town  of  Worth.  He  could  see  Raoult's 
brigade  already  busy  upon  it;  the  blue  tunics  and 
the  red  breeches  of  infantry  soldiers  flashed  beneath 
the  trees;  even  the  quaint  uniforms  of  the  zouaves, 


136       The  Garden  of  Swords 

and  the  black  Turcos,  were  to  be  seen.  From  the 
extreme  north  there  came  an  echo  of  rifle  shots, 
even  of  artillery ;  and  it  was  there,  Giraud  said, 
that  Ducrot  was  driving  back  the  Bavarians.  Fit- 
fully, indeed,  along  the  whole  line  of  the  valley,  the 
firing  was  now  sustained.  Yet  few  fell.  Lefort 
believed  with  an  effort  only  that  this  was  battle,  this 
the  working  of  a  nation's  destiny. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  "  how  odd  it  is  !  A  strip  of 
valley  land,  vineyards  and  villages  in  the  sunlight, 
the  birds  still  singing  in  the  woods,  who  knows, 
even  the  labourer  in  the  fields.  And  yet  to-morrow 
all  Europe  will  hear  of  it.  A  great  battle  will 
have  been  fought.  We  are  fighting  it  now.  Men 
are  looking  at  the  sky  who  will  never  see  another 
sun.  Do  you  realise  it  yourself,  Giraud ;  do  you 
understand  it  all  ?  " 

"  I,  Captain  ?  I  realise  nothing  except  that 
the  champagne  is  good.  Men  must  die,  it  is 
true,  but  will  they  die  less  well  because  I  am 
thirsty?  Norn  d'un  ckien,  let  us  wait  until  our 
time  comes,  and  then  remember  that  it  is  for 
France." 

He  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips,  but  set  it  down 
again  quickly.  One  of  the  lancers,  who  had  been 
leading  a  troop  horse,  turned  suddenly  with  a  sharp 
cry  on  his  lips  and  came  quickly  toward  them.  A 
curious  pallor,  tinged  with  green,  spread  over  his 


The  Death  Ride  137 

face.  He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  a 
crimson  stain  dyed  his  fingers. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "  they  have 
killed  me." 

There  were  three  men  at  his  side  in  a  moment, 
but,  even  as  they  stooped  over  him,  a  shell  hurtled 
through  the  trees  and  pitched  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  bivouac.  For  an  instant  Lefort  beheld  a 
leaping  flame  of  crimson  fire.  He  saw  horses 
rearing  upon  their  haunches ;  heard  cries  of  agony ; 
was  conscious  of  a  ringing  sensation  in  his  ears 
as  though  someone  were  beating  a  drum  there. 
Then  an  acrid  taste  of  gunpowder  filled  his  mouth  ; 
he  could  not  see  for  the  blinding  smoke ;  he 
pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  which,  pained  him 
intolerably.  When  Giraud  spoke  to  him  the  voice 
came  as  from  afar. 

u  You  are  all  right,  Captain  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;   and  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  seem  to  have  only  one  hand. 
Where  is  the  ambulance  ?  You  are  going  to  fall 
back,  of  course  ?  How  those  devils  fire !  And 
we  are  silent.  What  folly  ! " 

He  babbled  incessantly,  while  the  loom  of 
smoke  lifted  and  showed  them  the  death  it  had 
cloaked.  Three  of  the  troopers  lay  prone  at  their 
feet.  A  horse,  pawing  the  ground  in  agony, 
turned  to  them  pitiful  eyes.  One  of  the  sergeants 


138       The  Garden  of  Swords 

of  Lefort's  company  ran  up  and  down  with  blood 
upon  his  tunic.  Others  of  the  horses  were  gallop- 
ing, blind  with  terror,  up  and  down  the  glade. 
Lieutenant  Giraud  hugged  his  left  arm  —  there 
were  tears  of  rage  and  pain  in  his  eyes.  They  had 
shot  away  his  hand. 

"  What  pain  !  what  pain  !  "  he  cried,  as  a  child 
that  is  hurt.  "  I  am  maimed  for  life,  Captain. 
At  the  beginning,  too.  Oh,  my  God,  where  is 
the  ambulance  ?  " 

He  ran  to  and  fro  as  one  distracted,  and  fell 
anon  in  a  dead  faint.  Lefort,  stupefied  for  a 
moment,  began  to  remember  his  duty.  This  was 
battle,  then  —  these  agonising  cries,  this  maiming 
of  youth  and  courage,  these  eyes  looking  to  his  so 
pitifully.  And  he  must  face  these  things  that  his 
country  might  be  saved.  In  that  moment  he 
awoke  to  the  spirit  of  combat.  He  forgot  even  the 
child-wife  waiting  on  the  distant  hills  for  him  who 
had  taught  her  the  meaning  of  love. 

The  ambulance  entered  the  wood  now,  and 
Giraud  was  the  first  to  be  lifted  on  it.  He  lay 
as  one  asleep,  his  mangled  hand  nursed  as  a  babe 
nurses  a  little  wounded  limb.  Lefort  bent  over 
him.  He  wondered  how  many  of  his  friends 
would  sleep  like  that  before  the  sun  set.  And 
he  himself — would  he  see  the  dawn  again,  the 
home  he  loved,  or  her  who  had  made  it  a  home 


The  Death  Ride  139 

to  him  ?  A  burning  hatred  of  those  who  had 
made  the  war  steeled  his  heart  to  action  and  to 
courage.  He  would  fight  for  his  little  wife  —  for 
the  homes  of  France  and  the  children  waiting 
there. 

The  cavalry  fell  back  into  the  heart  of  the 
wood,  but,  without,  the  sounds  of  battle  magnified 
and  came  nearer.  Bullets  sang  among  the  trees 
always.  Shells  came  hurtling  over  the  thickets, 
or  fell  in  the  open  places  of  the  vineyards.  A 
little  while,  and  men  laughed  at  those  fellows. 
You  could  see  them  afar,  black  specks,  as  comets, 
with  tails  of  steam,  hissing  through  the  air.  The 
bullets  were  more  to  be  feared,  the  song  of  death 
wailing  in  flight,  the  unseen  blow  ending  in  a 
gasp  and  a  stagger  and  a  crimson  stain  upon 
the  earth.  And  the  delay  was  intolerable  to 
those  troops  of  horsemen  who  must  be  spec- 
tators while  their  comrades  fell  in  the  open 
places  of  the  fields  and  marsh  lands.  Brave 
horses  pawed  the  ground  or  became  restive  at 
the  thunder  of  sounds.  Old  troopers,  who  had 
been  in  Africa,  and  had  won  triumphs  at  Masena, 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  asked  what  sort 
of  a  general  that  was  who  forgot  his  cavalry. 
They  watched  the  batteries  spitting  fire  from  the 
trenches  below  them  and  mocked  the  spectacle. 
Every  aide-de-camp  galloping  by,  every  driver  of 


140       The  Garden  of  Swords 

a  waggon   who    passed   them   was    followed  by  a 
hundred  questions. 

"  How  goes  it,  comrade  ?  Do  they  fall  back  ? 
When  are  we  to  ride  ?  " 

Lefort  heard  the  questions  of  his  fellows  and 
did  not  rebuke  them.  He  shared  their  impatience. 
Sitting  there  idly  upon  his  horse  with  that  old 
fire-eater  Captain  Quirat  by  his  side,  he  thought 
how  odd  it  was  to  see  those  glittering  ranks  of 
motionless  troopers  and  to  know  that  men  were 
falling  by  thousands  in  the  vineyards  below. 
What  held  them  back  ?  The  Prussians  were  in 
the  villages  now.  Those  cursed  guns  were  put- 
ting a  girdle  of  fire  about  the  heights.  Was  this 
the  victory  of  which  an  aide-de-camp,  dashing  up 
to  Froeschweiler,  spoke  as  he  went  by  ?  The 
very  word  seemed  an  irony. 

"  What  a  tale,"  he  said  to  Quirat  savagely ; 
"  we  hold  them  at  all  points.  How  does  Mors- 
bronn  burn  them  ?  And  look  at  the  mill.  We 
had  it  an  hour  ago.  Where  are  our  fellows  now  ?  " 

Quirat  pulled  his  long  moustache  fiercely. 

"  The  men  are  saying  that  von  Kirchback 
is  through  Worth  with  the  fifth  corps.  That 
would  be  the  eleventh  corps  yonder.  We  are 
fighting  the  heads  of  columns,  man  ami  —  two 
hundred  thousand  men  if  I  have  any  eyes  to 
see.  Why  do  we  sit  here  like  fools  ?  Is  the 


"Sitting  there  .    .    .   with  that  old  fire-eater  Captain  Quirat 
by  his  side." 


The  Death  Ride  141 

cavalry  for  an  autumn  manoeuvre,  then  ?  It  's 
nonsense  to  hear  them.  A  charge  would  settle 
it;  but  we  are  more  ornamental.  We  shall  re- 
main in  this  wood  to  applaud  when  the  Germans 
ride  through  to  Paris." 

Lefort  took  a  cigar  from  his  case  and  lighted  it. 

"  If  we  were  at  the  opera,  I  would  say  bravo," 
he  exclaimed  ironically.  "  As  we  are  not,  we 
must  count  our  fingers  until  the  time  comes. 
There  is  plenty  to  see,  at  least.  They  are  burn- 
ing the  farmhouse  now  to  amuse  the  poor  fellows 
up  in  the  wood.  Ma  foi,  what  flames!  If  the 
weather  were  not  so  hot,  the  farmer  could  warm 
himself  at  his  own  fireside.  As  it  is,  he  is 
probably  saying  to  himself  that  the  army  knows 
how  to  protect  the  people.  You  let  the  Prus- 
sians burn  their  houses,  Quirat,  and  then  they 
have  no  anxieties." 

A  great  white  farmhouse,  the  Albrechtshauser, 
situated  upon  the  edge  of  the  wood,  burst  into 
flames  as  he  spoke.  Smoke  curled  above  its 
thatch ;  tongues  of  fire  licked  its  gables,  and 
spread  from  barn  to  barn  and  rick  to  rick.  All 
about  the  house  the  shrieks  of  the  dying  were 
to  be  heard.  Red  breeches  and  blue  gave  colour 
to  every  yard.  Bayonets  flashed  in  the  sunlight ; 
the  spiked  helmets  were  everywhere.  Foot  by 
foot  the  Prussians  drove  those  others  before 


142       The  Garden  of  Swords 

them.  The  din  of  battle,  resounding  as  a  crash 
of  thunder,  mingled  with  voices  of  woe  and  cries 
of  agony  and  the  blaring  of  trumpets  and  the 
baying  of  the  guns.  Through  the  whole  length 
of  the  valley  the  French  were  retreating.  Up 
the  rugged  slopes,  leaping  from  trench  to  trench, 
Vorwarts,  their  song  of  battle,  on  their  lips,  von 
Werder's  men  came  on.  It  was  the  culminat- 
ing hour.  The  cavalry  would  wait  idling  no 
longer. 

The  command  came  to  the  woods  when  the 
Prussians  were  already  in  the  outstanding  thickets. 
Lefort  heard  it,  and  scarce  believed  his  ears. 
They  were  to  charge  then !  They  must  drive 
those  spiked  helmets  from  the  vineyards  or  their 
own  right  would  be  turned.  He  rode  up  to  his 
troops  and  spoke  a  good  word  of  encouragement. 
It  was  odd  to  draw  his  sword  for  the  first  time  in 
earnest  and  to  know  that  he  must  kill  wherever 
the  enemies  of  France  were  to  be  seen.  The 
danger  of  the  charge  was  never  in  his  thoughts. 
It  was  dreadful  ground ;  the  obstacles  were 
many  —  but  for  this  day  all  his  life  had  been 
the  school. 

"  We  go  to  save  our  comrades  down  yonder," 
he  said.  "  You  will  win  honour  for  us,  mes 
enfants — for  me  and  for  France.  You  will 
remember  our  fathers  who  fought  at  Jena !  " 


The  Death  Ride  143 

Ringing  cheers  greeted  his  words.  At  last, 
at  last,  the  weary  hours  of  waiting  were  done 
with.  The  woods  quickened  to  the  awakening 
impulses.  A  fever  of  excitement  lighted  eyes  dull 
and  savage  with  delay.  The  breastplates  of  the 
cuirassiers  glittered  as  the  golden  shields  of  a 
mighty  host,  moving  apace  in  the  sunshine.  En 
avant !  En  avant !  The  bugle's  blast  was  as 
some  call  to  judgment  and  to  victory.  Onward 
—  if  to  death,  it  mattered  not.  Onward  —  it  was 
good  to  be  out  there  where  the  bullets  fell  as 
hail  and  the  shells  dug  graves  for  the  living. 
Onward  —  for  the  sake  of  France,  if  you  wished  it 
so  ;  for  the  sake  of  movement  and  of  life,  as  the 
dull  truth  went. 

In  columns  of  squadrons,  the  eighth  cuirassiers 
leading,  the  ninth  following,  the  lancers  last  of 
all,  General  Michel  led  his  brigade  through  the 
stubble  of  the  wood  to  the  steeper  slopes  beyond 
it.  From  shadow  they  passed  to  the  glare  of 
the  fuller  day.  Whatever  quaking  hearts  the 
white  tunics  covered,  no  sign  there  was  of  hesi- 
tation or  of  delay.  The  troopers  were  to  charge 
those  Prussians  and  to  send  them  back  across 
the  river.  Prayer,  death,  the  morrow  —  Lefort 
himself  had  no  thought  for  any  of  them.  He 
seemed  to  pass  through  some  door  to  a  mighty 
amphitheatre  beyond.  The  thunder  of  battle 


144       The  Garden  of  Swords 

crashed  in  his  ears.  His  horse  stumbled  over 
the  terrible  ground,  leaped  the  trenches,  snorted 
with  the  delight  of  it  —  yet  never  faltered.  Hills 
and  valleys,  crested  helmets,  golden  trappings, 
houses  aflame,  rivers  glistening  in  the  sun's  rays 
—  he  saw  them  all  as  things  far  off.  The  very 
danger  was  a  delight  inexplicable.  Down  and  yet 
down  into  the  very  pit  of  death.  Onward  —  over 
the  living  and  the  dead. 

As  the  slopes  became  steeper,  so  the  ferocity 
of  that  death-ride  was  the  greater.  Men  and 
horses  fell  together  in  blinding  clouds  of  dust. 
Troopers  hung  limp  from  their  stirrups ;  blood 
gushed  from  their  mouths  and  ears.  Or  stiff 
figures,  with  swords  upraised,  sat  rigidly  in  their 
saddles,  where  Death  had  chained  them  sardoni- 
cally. The  trail  they  left  was  a  trail  of  mangled 
beasts  and  men  —  a  trail  of  glittering  cuirasses 
and  battered  helmets  and  bloody  shapes.  The 
living  knew  nothing  of  it.  They  swept  on  in  a 
delirium  of  slaughter.  "  For  France,"  they  said. 
Yet  France  was  far  from  their  thoughts.  Life  — 
for  that  their  hunger  was. 

Out  into  the  sunny  fields,  over  the  ripened 
crops,  into  the  mazes  of  the  vineyards,  downward 
always  toward  the  shimmering  river  and  the 
valley's  heart.  The  Prussians  heard  their  cheers 
and  answered  them  with  rifles  at  their  shoulders 


The  Death  Ride  145 

and  bayonets  fixed.  Coiled  as  black  snakes  behind 
every  sheltering  furrow  or  outstanding  ridge,  they 
were  there  to  prove  that  the  glorious  cavalry 
of  France  was  invincible  no  more.  It  mattered 
not  that  lances  cleaved  the  hearts  of  some;  that 
swords  struck  upturned  faces ;  that  screams  of 
pain  and  rage  followed  the  horses'  path.  The 
rifle  would  avenge  their  comrades.  The  mighty 
human  cataract  pouring  about  them  did  not  envelop 
or  dismay  them.  Even  the  coward  forgot  his 
cowardice  and  struck  a  blow  for  his  very  life. 
The  lowliest  trooper  among  them  remembered 
the  General's  word,  "  I  must  do  my  duty."  Be- 
hind him  lay  the  Fatherland.  The  cities  of  France 
were  beyond  the  hills  —  the  goal  of  victory  and  of 
duty  vindicated. 

Into  the  death-pit  Lefort  rode ;  sword  in  hand, 
a  cry  that  was  almost  incoherent  upon  his  lips. 
He  saw  the  shimmer  of  the  light,  the  burning 
houses,  the  black  figures  in  the  grass ;  but  of 
his  own  acts  he  carried  no  memory.  Once  he 
remembered  asking  himself  what  Beatrix  was 
doing  at  that  moment  —  but  all  thoughts  of  her 
were  far  from  him  when,  at  length,  the  woods 
were  passed  and  the  great  shock  of  encounter 
fired  his  very  heart  with  all  the  impulse  of  deed 
and  of  desire.  To  slay  !  He  had  no  other  wish 
but  that.  To  slash  the  life  from  the  upturned 

10 


146      The  Garden  of  Swords 

faces,  to  hack  and  cut,  to  strike  a  good  blow  for 
France,  to  avenge  the  dead  upon  the  hills. 
Bayonets  glistened  at  his  very  breast,  the  smoke 
of  the  rifles  enveloped  him,  the  acrid  taste  of  gun- 
powder was  in  his  mouth  always.  He  knew  not 
what  power  enabled  him  to  ignore  these  things. 
A  madness  of  the  death-ride  possessed  him. 
The  thunder  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  as  a  mel- 
ody recurring  again  and  again  or  singing  in  his 
ears  defiantly.  He  was  aware  that  half  his  men 
lay  dead  on  the  slopes  behind  him  ;  he  understood 
that  General  Michel's  great  attack  had  failed  and 
that  the  chosen  cavalry  of  France  had  been 
annihilated  that  day.  But  still  he  rode  on.  There 
was  neither  wish  nor  thought  to  regain  the  shelter 
of  his  own  camp.  The  Prussians  lay  before  him. 
His  way  lay  there  to  the  guns  upon  the  heights. 
Fatigue  intolerable  could  not  tighten  his  hand  upon 
the  rein.  He  had  no  longer  the  power  to  lift  his 
sword. 

When  the  sun  set,  a  regiment  of  Prussian 
hussars,  riding  through  the  hills  of  Baden,  found 
him  alone  upon  the  road,  far  from  Worth  and  the 
battle  there.  He  sat  with  haggard  face  and  dizzy 
head  and  tears  upon  his  cheeks  beside  the  horse 
which  never  more  would  hear  his  voice  or  stretch 
its  neck  at  his  caress. 


The  Death  Ride  147 

"  Messieurs,"  he  said  to  them  pitifully,  "  if  you 
could  save  my  horse  —  ?  " 

The  troopers  nodded  their  heads  significantly. 
One  of  them,  with  a  good  heart,  put  a  flask  of 
brandy  to  his  lips. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  you  will  catch  cold  here, 
Monsieur,  and  your  horse  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NIGHT 

NIGHT  fell  upon  the  field  of  Worth,  upon  the 
bloody  scenes  and  the  upturned  faces  of  the  dead, 
and  all  the  horrid  sights  of  woe  and  desolation  ! 
Through  the  dark  places  of  the  hills  the  French 
were  flying  to  Saverne  ;  or  even  southward  to  the 
city  of  Strasburg  itself.  In  the  valley,  where  at 
dawn  the  whole  glory  of  the  day  had  shone,  the 
wounded  cried  for  succour  and  for  death.  Burn- 
ing villages,  beacon-fires,  the  lanterns  of  the  human 
vultures  gave  light  for  the  hour.  A  mighty  host 
crossed  the  mountains,  cavalrymen  on  foot,  in- 
fantry upon  horses,  peasants  mad  with  fear  —  the 
pursuing  Uhlans  everywhere. 

Beatrix  heard  the  murmur  of  retreat;  she 
did  not  quail  before  it.  All  her  friends  were 
fleeing  from  the  doomed  city  ;  but  she  remained. 
Down  there  by  the  river  where  the  vanquished 
had  fallen,  she  searched,  lantern  in  hand,  for  the 
body  of  her  lover.  Never  once  did  she  doubt 
that  he  was  dead.  She  had  watched  the  glitter- 
ing horsemen  as  they  rode  from  the  woods  ;  she 
had  seen  them  fall  as  corn  before  the  sickle, 


Night  149 

There  could  be  no  hope  that  Edmond  lived, 
they  told  her.  Above,  on  the  heights,  the  home 
which  was  dear  to  her  sent  tongues  of  flame  to 
illumine  the  darkness  of  the  woods  wherein  her 
love-dream  had  been  given.  The  Prussians  had 
burned  it.  She  had  seen  Frenchmen  dead  in 
the  rooms  of  her  house ;  she  had  listened  to  the 
fierce  shouts  of  anger  and  of  despair  when  the 
Prussians  came  up  through  the  woods  and  drove 
their  enemies  before  them.  The  stress  of  battle 
had  closed  about  her  with  a  mighty  roar  as  of  some 
stupendous  storm  raging  in  the  hills.  Hidden 
in  a  dark  place,  the  trembling  Guillaumette  at 
her  side,  she  had  waited  and  had  watched 
for  help  and  for  the  tidings.  But  old  Jules 
Picard,  who  had  ridden  down  toward  Worth 
at  sunset,  returned  no  more.  The  day  had 
willed  the  death  even  of  this  bent  old  man,  she 
thought. 

"  They  will  not  harm  old  Jules  Picard,  Madame," 
he  had  said.  "  I  shall  go  to  Morsbronn  and  bring 
the  news.  Those  fellows  do  not  shoot  there  any 
longer.  The  Captain  will  come  back  with  me. 
He  is  down  there  somewhere  ;  be  sure  of  it.  In 
one  hour,  in  two,  we  will  return  —  together.  Ma 
foi,  there  is  little  life  in  this  old  body.  Why 
should  the  Prussians  want  what  is  left  ?  There 
will  be  dead  enough  to  count  by-and-by.  Run 


150       The  Garden  of  Swords 

to  the  woods,  my  child,  and  wait  for  me.      It  will 
not  be  long." 

He  went  away  as  though  his  were  the  lightest 
errand  in  the  world  ;  but  he  did  not  deceive  him- 
self, and  he  said  that  Edmond  Lefort  must  lie  with 
those  others,  the  cuirassiers,  who  nevermore  would 
see  the  sun  or  hear  a  comrade's  voice.  His  real 
mission  was  to  go  up  to  the  great  chateau  on  the 
hill,  the  home  of  the  Count  of  Durckheim,  and  to 
ask  if  any  shelter  were  possible  there  for  the  girl- 
wife  Lefort  had  entrusted  to  his  keeping.  Well 
he  knew  what  the  roads  to  Strasburg  or  to  Saverne 
would  be  like  that  night.  The  maddened,  de- 
spair-driven, flying  hosts  ;  the  rolling  waggons,  the 
plunging  horses ;  the  throngs  of  fugitives  be- 
come as  devils  —  what  hope  for  any  woman 
abroad  on  such  a  journey  ?  Far  better  that  she 
should  wait  in  her  own  woods.  The  storm  would 
blow  over  to-morrow.  All  report  said  that  the 
Germans  knew  how  to  treat  the  women  of 
France. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  woods  Beatrix  watched 
the  advancing  Prussians  as  they  drove  the  French 
from  the  thickets  and  came  upward,  ever  upward 
toward  her  home.  She  saw  them  in  the  sacred 
rooms  of  her  own  house;  she  was  a  witness  of 
the  last  fierce  onslaught  when  the  Turcos  fell  in 
heaps  before  the  arbour  she  had  loved  and  the 


"The  Turcos  fell  in  heaps  before  the  arbour." 


Night  151 

flames  burst  from  those  very  windows  which  had 
shown  her  the  white  villages  and  the  havens  of 
silence.  Some  terrible  judgment  of  God  seemed 
to  have  fallen  upon  her.  It  was  as  though  a 
sea  of  fire  surged  about  her,  lapping  her  with 
molten  ripple,  tossing  in  upon  its  terrible  waves 
the  bloody  victims  of  war  and  passion.  Ever  in 
her  ears  a  voice  said  :  "  He  is  dead  ;  Edmond  is 
dead."  She  did  not  complain  ;  she  did  not  move 
from  her  watching  place.  She  thought  that  surely 
she  must  die  in  the  woods  ;  that  her  eyes  must 
be  for  ever  closed  to  the  terror  of  those  sights  and 
sounds  ;  that  in  death  she  would  hear  her  lover's 
voice  again. 

At  sunset  the  wave  of  battle  was  broken ;  the 
thunder  of  the  human  surf  beat  upon  the  distant 
villages,  upon  the  remoter  passes  of  the  Vosges. 
There  were  Prussians  everywhere  ;  but  such  of 
the  soldiers  of  France  as  remained  were  mute 
and  heartbroken  prisoners.  Lights  began  to  shine 
on  the  slopes  now  ;  she  heard  strange  voices  sing- 
ing the  Wacbt  am  Rhein,  or  the  hymn  which 
Luther  wrote.  German  troopers  went  by  at  the 
gallop  ;  but  there  were  Prussians  no  longer  at  the 
chalet.  The  silence  helped  her  to  recollection. 
She  crept  from  her  hiding  place,  holding  Guillau- 
mette's  hand;  and  the  greater  truth  of  the  night 
began  to  be  known  to  her. 


152       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  she  said,  "  where  shall  we  find 
a  friend  to-night,  Guillaumette  ?  " 

Guillaumette,  afraid  no  longer  since  the  storm 
of  battle  had  passed,  began  to  play  the  better 
part. 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  Monsieur  had  sent 
a  man  to  us  and  not  a  bundle  of  bones  upon  a 
silly  horse  !  What  is  the  good  of  an  old  rat  like 
that  when  the  Prussians  come?  Ma foi !  it  would 
have  been  different  if  Gaspard  were  here !  Do 
not  cry  for  the  house,  Madame.  We  shall  build 
another  when  the  spring  comes  —  and  Monsieur 
will  be  back  again.  He  will  come  to-night.  I 
should  not  wonder  —  ah,  Madame,  if  there  were 
not  tears  in  your  eyes  !  " 

She  clasped  her  hands ;  her  own  tears  fell  for 
the  house  which  was  but  ashes,  for  the  garden 
where  the  roses  had  bloomed  ;  for  all  that  had 
made  their  home. 

"  Oh,  the  animals  —  to  destroy  our  roses, 
Madame,  to  burn  our  house !  As  if  it  were 
our  word  which  made  the  war !  But  Monsieur 
will  come  back.  Oh,  God,  send  him  back  to  us 
this  very  night  !  " 

They  stood  together,  brave  women  looking  for 
the  first  time  upon  the  face  of  war;  and  all  the 
pity  of  war  was  in  their  hearts.  A  flicker  of 
flame  still  played  about  the  ruins  of  their  house  ; 


Night  153 

the  odour  of  burning  wood  and  cloth  was  in- 
tolerable. In  the  left  wing,  where  her  boudoir 
had  been,  Beatrix  could  see  the  pictures  shrivelled 
in  their  frames  ;  the  open  piano  black  and  scarred ; 
even  burnt  paper  upon  the  writing  table.  Else- 
where all  had  fallen.  The  garden  was  a  muddy 
swamp.  The  horses  were  gone  from  the  stables. 
Old  Jacob  had  fled  to  Niederbronn  at  the  dawn 
of  the  day.  They  stood  alone,  and  all  the  dread- 
ful omen  of  the  night  was  about  them. 

"We  shall  sleep  in  the  woods,  Madame  —  to- 
morrow Monsieur  will  come  !  Ah,  if  he  should 
come  to-morrow,  and  the  news  should  be  good, 
and  we  should  go  to  Strasburg  with  him  !  Who 
could  harm  us  in  Strasburg,  where  the  great  guns 
roar,  and  the  great  forts  rise  up,  and  the  soldiers 
are  everywhere  ?  Sainte  Vurge — what  a  dream  to 
dream!  No  Germans,  no  cannon,  no  hunger  — 
are  you  not  very  hungry,  dear  Madame  ? " 

Beatrix  answered  as  one  who  speaks  in  sleep. 

"  I  am  not  hungry,  Guillaumette,"  she  said. 
"  Monsieur  will  not  come  to-night.  He  is  in 
Worth.  We  are  going  to  meet  him.  You  will 
get  a  lantern  and  come  with  me.  None  will 
harm  us.  Are  you  afraid,  Guillaumette  ?  " 

"  Afraid  ?  I  —  Madame  ?  Afraid  of  the  vitains 
Prusses.  As  if  one  could  be  afraid  !  But  we  shall 
not  go  to-night.  We  are  hungry,  and  we  will  beg 


154      The  Garden  of  Swords 

our  supper  somewhere.  Ah,  Madame,  the  pity  of 
it  —  our  beautiful  house  —  our  home  !  " 

Beatrix  did  not  heed  her.  Her  eyes  were  dry. 
Her  lips  burned  as  the  lips  of  one  irt  a  fever. 
A  fixed  idea  was  in  her  mind.  She  would  find 
Edmond.  She  would  seek  him  down  there  where 
the  dead  slept  in  the  heart  of  the  vineyards. 
He  might  be  lying  wounded  and  waiting  for  her, 
she  thought.  She  could  imagine  his  upturned 
face,  his  vigil  of  suffering,  the  kisses  with  which 
she  would  nurse  him  back  to  life  again.  A 
woman's  deepest  sympathy,  the  sympathy  of  love, 
quickened  her  resolution.  She  was  angry  in  her 
impatience. 

"  Why  do  we  wait,  Guillaumette  ?  Why  do 
we  stand  here  when  Monsieur  is  expecting  us  ? 
We  cannot  save  the  house  now.  There  are  lan- 
terns in  the  stable  —  oh,  my  God,  if  we  should 
be  too  late  !  " 

She  drew  her  cloak  close  about  her  head  and 
went  quickly  towards  the  ruins  of  the  house. 
Guillaumette,  watching  her  for  a  moment,  dried 
up  her  tears.  After  all,  there  were  men  down 
there  at  Worth,  and  someone  would  give  them 
supper. 

"  I  will  find  the  lantern,  Madame  —  do  not 
dirty  your  beautiful  shoes.  There  are  Prussians 
down  yonder  —  the  animals.  And  you  are  brave, 


Night  155 

Madame  —  oh,  so  brave.  If  those  others  had  been 
like  you  !  " 

She  babbled  on,  taking  a  lantern  from  the 
shelf  of  the  tottering  stables  and  groping  for 
matches  there.  In  its  way,  the  dreadful  day  had 
been  welcome  to  her  as  the  changing  event  of 
an  unchanging  life.  She  had  a  terrible  fear  of 
the  woods,  and  she  held  her  mistress's  hand 
when  they  began  to  go  down  towards  the  village, 
and  the  darkness  of  the  thickets  closed  about 
their  path.  What  sights  that  forest  cloaked ! 
A  cry  escaped  her  lips  when  the  lantern  showed 
her  a  Bavarian  trooper  sitting  with  his  back 
against  a  tree,  but  quite  dead  in  spite  of  the 
ghastly  laugh  about  his  lips.  The  bodies  were 
everywhere.  She  saw  in  fancy  the  spirits  of  the 
dead  hovering  above  the  place  of  battle.  The 
moan  of  a  wounded  chasseur,  who  crawled  upon 
his  hands  and  knees  towards  them,  was  a  wail 
as  of  some  evil  thing  hidden  in  the  brake.  She 
had  no  pity  for  the  man.  She  craved  for  light  — 
the  lights  of  a  city,  the  voices  of  men. 

Beatrix  passed  through  the  woods  unconscious 
of  their  secrets.  She  went  on  with  eyes  half  closed 
and  lips  compressed.  Edmond  was  waiting  for 
her  in  the  vineyards  where  the  dead  lay.  She 
did  not  see  the  terrible  figures  of  the  brake,  the 
dying,  or  those  that  followed,  ghoul-like,  the  path 


156       The  Garden  of  Swords 

of  the  destroyer.  Once,  indeed,  a  man  with  bloody 
hands  and  the  eyes  of  a  hawk  sprang  up  from 
the  path  before  her  and  disappeared  into  the 
undergrowth,  believing  that  men  and  not  women 
came  to  watch  him.  The  face  of  the  man  made 
her  heart  stand  still.  She  stepped  back  as  one 
who  had  seen  a  figure  from  the  very  pit  of  hell. 
Guillaumette  had  fallen  upon  her  knees  to  sob 
an  hysterical  prayer. 

"  Satnte  Vierge  —  what  sights!  Oh,  God  help 
us,  Madame.  Did  you  see  the  man  ?  Did  you 
see  his  face  ?  There  was  blood  upon  it.  I  can- 
not go  on.  You  will  not  leave  me  alone  here  — 
Jesus  help  me  —  I  cannot  go." 

Beatrix  took  her  hand  and  dragged  her  up. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  Monsieur  is  waiting  for 
us  in  the  vineyards.  Who  will  harm  two  women  ? 
Do  you  not  hear  the  soldiers,  Guillaumette  ? " 

A  strange  sound,  the  echo  of  guttural  voices 
raised  in  merriment,  came  to  them  from  the  copse 
below.  Men  were  singing  a  weird  song  of  victory  ; 
lights  danced  in  the  interstices  of  the  trees  —  cheer- 
ing was  heard,  and  the  excited  exclamations  of 
the  masqueraders.  It  would  be  the  Prussians 
rejoicing  by  some  bivouac  fire,  Beatrix  thought. 
They  would  respect  her  errand.  Even  the  trem- 
bling Guillaumette  took  heart  when  she  knew  that 
there  were  soldiers  there. 


Night  157 

"  The  vilains  Prusses,  Madame  —  hark  to  them," 
she  cried,  forgetting  her  tears  in  a  moment,  "  they 
have  the  voices  of  pigs,  Madame.  And  they  will 
give  us  supper,  perhaps.  Ah,  if  there  should  be 
supper  there  —  " 

She  stumbled  on,  and  at  the  turn  of  the  road 
they  beheld  the  bivouac  and  the  watch-fire  burning 
brightly.  A  regiment  of  Uhlans  made  merry 
there ;  and  never  did  troopers  wear  a  uniform  so 
strange.  For  these  were  the  hussars  who  had 
broken  open  the  baggage  of  the  great  MacMahon 
himself —  strange  baggage  for  a  man  and  for  those 
who  followed  the  man.  Dainty  corsets  were  there, 
and  hose  of  silk,  and  gowns  which  famous  cos- 
tumiers had  made,  and  little  white  shoes  of  satin 
and  bows  of  many  hues,  and  even  bonnets  with 
gay  feathers  in  them.  The  Uhlans,  half  drunk 
with  the  excitement  of  victory,  greeted  the  treas- 
ures hilariously.  Some  of  them  had  put  on  the 
cap  of  "  Madame  "  ;  some  wore  the  rustling 
skirts  spangled  with  fine  embroidery ;  some  capered 
in  the  hats  which  had  been  the  glory  of  the  Bois. 
Ribald  shouts  greeted  their  pantomime.  Officers 
looked  on  and  spoke  no  word  of  rebuke.  Bottles 
were  raised  to  the  absent  owners.  A  very  satur- 
nalia heralded  the  night  of  victory. 

Guillaumette  was    all   for   seeking   help  of  the 
Germans.     They    were    merry    fellows,    as    their 


158       The  Garden  of  Swords 

antics  showed.  She  had  seen  no  such  spectacle 
since  the  marionettes  were  at  Worth  a  year  ago. 

"  Oh,  the  fine  gowns,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
Madame  !  They  will  not  harm  us.  The  brutes 
—  to  dance  such  things  in  the  mud.  Are  you 
not  going  to  speak  to  them,  to  ask  about  Mon- 
sieur? Look  at  the  splendid  fellow  in  the  yellow 
silk.  He  would  be  a  Wiirtemberger !  All  the 
Wiirtembergers  are  animals  —  shall  I  go  and  ask 
him,  Madame  ?•" 

Beatrix  ran  on  appalled.  This  carnival  of 
ribaldry  seemed  as  some  picture  from  the  nether 
world.  That  men  should  sing  and  dance,  with 
the  dying  and  the  dead  for  their  audience,  was 
an  infamy  passing  belief.  Henceforth  she  avoided 
the  beacon  fires  as  she  would  have  avoided  the 
lamps  of  hell  itself.  The  forest  became  a  place 
of  terror.  She  scarcely  breathed  until  she  had 
left  it,  and  stood  in  the  fields  with  the  lamps  of 
Worth  twinkling  below,  and  the  heaven  of  stars 
looking  down  upon  the  faces  of  those  who  cried 
to  heaven  for  sleep  and  death. 

"  We  shall  find  Monsieur  now,  Guillaumette," 
she  said  simply ;  "  he  will  be  waiting  for  us. 
Afterwards  we  will  come  to  these  poor  people. 
If  one  only  had  the  power  to  help  them  —  the 
balm  which  would  give  them  sleep !  Is  it  not 
strange  that  we  can  walk  here  at  all  ?  Yesterday, 


Night  159 

when  the  dead  man  was  in  our  stables,  we  dared 
not  pass  the  door.  To-night  the  dead  are  every- 
where !  There  is  no  pity  left  in  the  world.  Even 
the  children  are  forgotten." 

She  spoke  as  one  uttering  thoughts  which  no 
other  shared  ;  but  Guillaumette  admitted  none  of 
her  philosophy. 

"  The  Virgin  be  praised  that  I  have  no  chil- 
dren this  night !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  do  not 
think  that  we  shall  find  Monsieur  here.  He  has 
gone  to  Strasburg  with  the  others.  Ask  Monsieur 
the  Cure,  and  he  will  tell  you  so.  There  would 
be  shelter  for  you  in  the  house  of  the  cure, 
Madame.  They  do  not  eat  the  priests,  those 
animals  —  and  we  are  hungry,  oh,  so  hungry  !  " 

They  stood  above  the  high-road  to  Strasburg 
at  the  moment  and  could  see  the  patrols  upon  it, 
the  glistening  bayonets  and  the  unresting  Uhlans. 
Lights  were  moving  in  all  the  neighbouring  villages. 
Watch-fires  flamed  upon  the  hills ;  the  bugles 
blared  incessantly.  Everywhere  the  German  cor- 
don of  possession  was  being  drawn  tight.  Beatrix, 
in  spite  of  herself,  found  her  awe  of  this  mighty, 
invincible  host  rapidly  becoming  a  subtle  fascina- 
tion. Pity  for  France  was  there  ;  but  it  gave 
place  to  an  overmastering  realisation  of  victory 
unrelenting,  to  a  surpassing  sympathy  with  the 
dying  who  heard  no  word  of  grace,  with  the 


160       The  Garden  of  Swords 

wounded  whose  wounds  were  still  unbound  — 
with  those  alone  and  friendless  in  the  terrible 
night.  The  army,  the  glorious  army  of  yesterday 
—  it  was  a  rabble  now,  fleeing  through  the  moun- 
tains impotently.  That  which  amounted  almost 
to  contempt  for  its  impotence  was  among  her 
thoughts.  It  had  left  the  bones  of  France  to  the 
enemy — it  had  left  those  children  of  France  dying 
there  in  the  darkness  of  the  hills.  For  her  it  was 
a  glorious  army  no  more.  Edmond  alone  remained 
to  her.  She  saw  that  she  would  not  eat  nor  sleep 
until  she  held  his  hand  again. 

"  Guillaumette,"  she  said,  "  go  to  the  cure  and 
tell  him  that  I  am  here.  If  he  will  help  me  —  " 

"  But  you  will  be  alone,  Madame." 

"  I  shall  be  with  Monsieur." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Va  la  —  we  shall  breakfast  to-morrow,  and  I 
can  wait.  Let  us  go  on,  Madame." 

She  knew  that  her  mistress's  hallucinations 
were  the  outcome  of  that  dreadful  day ;  nor  did 
she  quarrel  with  them.  There  could  be  nothing 
worse  than  the  sights  the  woods  cloaked.  The 
dead  around  her —  she  would  not  look  upon  their 
faces.  The  wounded  —  she  put  her  fingers  to 
her  ears  that  she  might  not  hear  their  cries  !  And 
they  were  drawing  near  to  the  houses  of  her  own 
people  now.  The  physical  craving  dominated 


Night  161 

her.      She  was  hungry,  and  all  else  was  secondary 
to  that. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  those  who  buried 
the  dead  were  still  at  work  in  the  open  fields  by 
the  river.  Beatrix  saw  their  lanterns  as  chang- 
ing clusters  of  stars  upon  the  hillside.  The  pity 
in  her  heart  was  ever  growing.  A  wounded  horse 
came  up  and  thrust  its  hot  nose  into  her  hand. 
She  laid  her  cheek  upon  its  face,  and  her  tears 
fell  fast.  Fatigue  had  begun  to  master  her.  She 
had  not  eaten  for  many  hours.  No  real  belief 
that  she  would  find  her  husband  drove  her  on ; 
only  a  pursuing  idea,  the  idea  that  she  must 
go  out  into  the  world,  wandering,  until  she  heard 
his  voice  again.  Nor  could  she  pick  her  way 
any  longer.  From  field  to  field  and  road  to  road 
she  went  with  heavy  steps  and  a  great  pain  at 
her  heart,  and  pity  —  that  unceasing  pity  —  always 
prevailing  above  her  own  grief  and  sorrow  for 
herself. 

And  so  she  came  at  last  to  the  watch-fires 
of  a  Prussian  regiment  of  dragoons,  and  men, 
hearing  a  woman's  voice,  sprang  up  and  greeted 
her  with  a  ribald  welcome,  and  strong  arms 
dragged  her  to  the  light.  But  the  first  coherent 
word  spoken  was  the  word  of  a  friend ;  and 
looking  up  timidly  she  beheld  Brandon  North, 
the  Englishman. 

ii 


CHAPTER    XV 

A    BIVOUAC    OF    DRAGOONS 

HE  had  recognised  her  voice  at  once,  and  he 
came  forward  and  took  her  hand  and  drew  her 
toward  the  blazing  fire. 

"  Good  God,  it  is  Beatrix  !  "  he  exclaimed,  for- 
getting that  the  right  thus  to  call  her  had  passed 
to  another.  She  answered  him  with  a  responding 
word  of  surprise. 

"You,  here  at  Worth,  Brandon  —  then  you 
have  seen  Edmond  ?  " 

He  released  her  hand  and  turned  from  the 
fire. 

"  No,"  he  said  quietly,  "  and,  of  course,  it  is 
a  surprise  to  you.  I  served  my  time  with  the 
Hessian  dragoons  before  I  came  to  Strasburg. 
None  of  you  knew  that,  and  I  did  not  wish  it 
to  be  known.  A  man  must  have  some  employ- 
ment besides  telling  people  that  his  wine  is  good. 
But  you  are  cold  and  ill.  Come  to  my  cottage. 
The  others  are  there  —  and  we  will  get  a  glass  of 

D  O 

wine.  Some  of  them  will  have  news  of  the 
lancers.  I  was  very  sorry  to  see  them  hurt 
your  house,  but  war  is  war,  and  it  goes  without 


A  Bivouac  of  Dragoons      163 

saying  that  people  must  suffer.  Have  you  any 
friends  in  Worth  ?  " 

He  tried  to  assume  a  certain  nonchalance,  as 
though  he  were  discussing  the  common  things 
of  the  day.  She  was  not  deceived  by  it ;  nor 
had  the  surprise  of  seeing  him  there,  a  fine 
figure  in  the  dark  green  tunic,  yet  passed. 

"  You  forget,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  cannot  go 
with  you  now.  And  Edmond  is  waiting  for  me. 
He  should  be  in  Worth,  or  perhaps  at  Gunstett 
across  the  river.  I  waited  till  sunset,  and  when 
he  did  not  come  back,  Guillaumette  and  I  ran 
down.  They  have  burned  our  house,  Brandon. 
All  the  things  that  he  loved  are  destroyed.  And 
we  were  so  happy  there  !  " 

She  spoke  with  no  design,  hiding  nothing  of 
her  love.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when 
she  thought  of  the  little  house  now  a  heap  of 
ashes.  He  saw  the  tears,  and  they  seemed  to 
fall  upon  his  heart. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  exclaimed  —  and  was  half 
ashamed  that  she  heard  the  words. 

"  Brandon,"  she  said  very  seriously,  "  I  must 
find  Edmond  —  I  must  go  now." 

"  That  would  be  foolishness,  Beatrix.  Worth 
is  no  place  for  a  woman  to-night.  I  wonder  that 
you  came  so  far  without  insult.  We  must  find 
some  shelter  for  you  till  you  start  again.  I  will 


164       The  Garden  of  Swords 

send  a  trooper  now  at  once  to  see  if  they  have 
any  lists.  It  is  wonderful  the  way  our  people  do 
things.  We  shall  know  at  dawn  exactly  what 
the  lancers  did,  and  that  will  mean  news  of 
your  husband.  Meanwhile,  if  you  won't  come  to 
the  cottage,  you  must  warm  your  hands  at  this 
fire,  and  I  will  get  a  glass  of  wine.  Believe  me, 
I  am  very  sorry.  If  there  is  anything  to  be  done, 
you  have  only  to  ask  me.  There  is  no  reason 
that  I  can  see  why  our  friendship  should  be 
broken.  You  do  not  believe  all  the  things  said 
about  us,  I  am  sure.  We  have  our  duty  to 
do  —  to  men  and  women.  And  we  are  not  the 
scoundrels  your  people  make  us  out." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  with  the  look  of  one 
who  had  been  his  friend  for  many  years. 

"As  if  it  were  necessary  to  tell  me  all  this  — 
you  !  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Then  we  will  take  it  for  granted,"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  added  —  "  Come,  here  is  a  cloak.  It 
will  make  a  little  soldier  of  you.  I  will  send 
the  man  for  the  news  at  once,  and  you  must 
drink  a  glass  of  wine.  These  nights  fall  cold,  and 
the  damp  makes  them  worse.  If  we  had  known 
in  Strasburg  how  we  should  meet  again  —  " 

He  stopped  abruptly  when  he  saw  the  shadow 
steal  over  her  face.  He  had  begun  to  forget, 


A  Bivouac  of  Dragoons      165 

he  thought,  that  she  was  another  man's  wife. 
Yet  every  act,  every  word  of  his  was  full  of  a 
strong  man's  pity  for  her  —  the  little  helpless 
girl  out  there  amid  that  saturnalia  of  death  and 
of  defeat.  She,  on  her  part,  did  not  ask  herself 
why  she  remained  with  him.  No  fear  of  his 
friendship  drove  her  from  the  camp.  She  did 
not  know  that  he  would  have  laid  down  his  life 
for  her,  that  he  loved  her  as  few  men  love  women. 
It  was  an  odd  meeting,  that  was  all  ;  a  lucky 
meeting.  And  how  Edmond  would  laugh  to  see 
her  sitting  there  with  a  Prussian  cloak  about  her 
shoulders  and  Prussians  offering  her  wine,  and 
Guillaumette  drinking  the  troopers'  beer,  and 
joining  in  a  crescendo  of  laughter,  high-pitched 
and  piercing. 

News  of  the  lancers  came  in  an  hour.  She  read 
in  Brandon's  face  the  truth  of  it,  and  started  up 
from  the  seat  of  logs  they  had  found  her  with  beating 
heart  and  a  face  that  was  very  wan  and  white. 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  she  cried,  "  he  is  dead  !  " 

"  Not  so,  Beatrix  —  he  is  unharmed  — " 

"  At  Worth  —  ?  " 

"  No ;  they  will  send  him  to  Mainz." 

"  He  is  a  prisoner,  then  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  her.  She  stood  gazing  into 
the  fire  as  one  who  sees  pictures  there.  Guillau- 
mette was  still  amusing  the  troopers. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    PROMISE 

THEY  found  a  haven  of  refuge  for  her  in  the 
house  of  the  cure  of  Morsbronn,  and  she  slept 
there  until  the  sun  was  shining  upon  Worth  again. 
It  was  odd  to  wake  in  that  little  white  bedroom, 
and  to  find  herself  wrapped  about  with  the  cloak 
of  a  Hessian  dragoon,  and  to  hear  the  voices  of 
men  busy  in  the  rooms  below,  and  those  other 
sounds  of  squadrons  marching  and  of  guns  rolling 
by  to  Strasburg  and  the  West.  She  could  not,  for 
a  little  while,  recall  the  means  by  which  she  had 
come  to  the  house ;  neither  was  there  any  clear 
memory  of  yesterday,  nor  of  its  events.  When 
she  looked  from  the  window,  out  upon  the  high 
road,  she  could  see  a  red  cross  flying  from  the 
pillar  of  the  garden  gates,  and  everywhere,  on  the 
heights  above  and  in  the  valley  below,  the  spiked 
helmets  glistened  in  the  sunshine.  These  indomi- 
table Prussians  were  the  masters  of  Worth,  then  ! 
The  glorious  army  of  yesterday  —  that  army 
which  was  to  defend  the  homes  of  France  —  it 
was  an  army  no  more.  A  sense  of  her  utter 
helplessness  took  possession  of  her  anew.  She 


The  Promise  167 

remembered,  one  by  one,  the  circumstances  she 
had  forgotten.  They  had  burned  her  house. 
Edmond  was  a  prisoner.  Brandon  North  had 
brought  her  to  the  priest's  cottage,  and  would 
come  again  at  dawn  to  put  her  on  the  road  to 
Strasburg.  She  must  return  to  her  friends,  he 
had  said.  Worth  was  no  longer  a  fit  place  for 
her. 

He  came  at  eight  o'clock,  and  waited  for  her 
in  the  garden  of  the  cottage.  She  could  hardly 
believe,  even  yet,  that  this  great  fellow,  in  the 
dark  green  uniform,  was  the  same  Brandon  who 
had  been  her  English  friend  in  Strasburg.  A  new 
dignity  was  the  soldier's  gift  to  him.  The  in- 
vincible might  of  Germany,  the  victory  of  the 
Saxon,  were  so  many  sops  to  his  own  ambition. 
He  spoke  to  her  almost  as  a  brother,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  she  had  a  certain  awe  of  him. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  be  troublesome,"  he  said,  when 
he  saw  her  at  the  window  of  the  room ;  "  we 
march  in  half  an  hour,  and  if  you  can  be  ready, 
an  Englishman  here,  who  is  driving  to  Hagenau, 
will  take  you  in  his  cart.  Do  you  think  you  can 
manage  it  ?  " 

u  You  still  believe  that  I  ought  to  go  ?  " 

u  Well  —  it 's  for  you  to  say.  If  you  want  to 
stop  at  Worth  an  hour  longer  than  you  can  help, 
I  shall  be  surprised.  That 's  all." 


1 68       The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  began  to  make  a 
hurried  toilet.  Upon  going  downstairs,  she  found 
the  priest  standing  before  the  door  of  his  sitting- 
room,  and  barring  it  to  her.  A  forgotten  candle 
guttered  in  a  stick  upon  a  table ;  and  there  were 
bloody  bandages  and  a  tumbler  of  water  beside 
it.  Low  moaning  sounds  came  from  the  apart- 
ment, and  even  there,  in  the  hall,  a  dark  crimson 
stain  gave  sanctity  to  the  boards.  She  knew  then 
that  some  of  the  wounded  men  were  in  the  house ; 
and  even  while  she  stood  they  carried  in  a  dying 
cuirassier,  and  she  could  look  for  an  instant  into 
that  charnel-house,  where  the  living  sat  with 
the  dead,  and  the  aftermath  of  war  was  being  reaped. 

"  This  way,  Madame,  this  way,"  the  old  man 
cried  imploringly  ;  "  those  poor  fellows  —  we  can 
help  them  only  with  our  prayers.  They  have 
been  coming  here  all  night.  Ah,  that  we  should 
see  such  sights  ;  that  God  should  permit  men  to 
do  these  things  !  " 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  through 
the  kitchen  of  the  house.  There  were  German 
officers  there,  a  merry  party,  hardened  to  the  scenes 
about,  and  careless  in  its  talk  of  victory  and  of 
advance.  The  men  bowed  to  her  as  she  passed, 
for  they  understood  that  she  was  the  English 
friend  of  the  "  Herr  Major."  In  the  garden  she 
found  Brandon  waiting  by  his  horse.  The  thought 


The  Promise  169 

came  to  her  that  it  was  good  to  have  such  a  friend 
in  such  a  place.  There  was  no  question  of  the 
"  might  be  "  where  the  Prussians  stood. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  shuddering  still  with  horror  of 
the  house,  "  how  good  it  is  to  breathe  again  !  Have 
you  been  waiting  long,  Brandon  ?  " 

"  I  was  up  here  at  six,  but  they  told  me  you 
were  asleep.  You  must  be  tired  enough  after 
yesterday,  and  you  '11  have  a  long  day.  I  did  n't 
want  to  wake  you,  but  it  was  necessary  if  you  are 
to  come  with  us.  Of  course  you  will  come. 
There  's  not  a  house  in  Worth  fit  for  a  dog  just 
now.  We  can  make  a  road  if  you  '11  go  in 
Watts's  cart.  He 's  an  eccentric  old  fellow, 
attached  to  one  of  the  New  York  papers  —  though 
he  's  an  Englishman  for  all  that.  I  told  him  that 
you  were  an  Englishwoman  and  had  friends  in 
Strasburg,  and  he  's  only  too  pleased  to  help.  I 
dare  say  he  '11  drive  you  right  into  the  town. 
Don't  mind  his  bluntness.  He 's  a  regular  old 
Bohemian,  and  not  a  sham  one  made  in  an  ale- 
house. It  will  be  best  for  you  to  stay  there  with 
Madame  Helene,  or  to  go  down  into  Switzerland, 
as  you  please;  but,  if  you  take  my  advice,  Beatrix, 
you  won't  stop  a  day  longer  in  the  Place  Kleber 
than  you  can  help.  You  see  for  yourself  what's 
going  to  happen.  And  Strasburg  won't  be  a 
pleasant  place  when  von  Werder  calls  there." 


i  jo       The  Garden  of  Swords 

He  spoke  to  her  with  a  certain  intimacy  of 
friendship,  as  though  they  two  stood  apart  from 
this  quarrel  of  nations,  and  had  a  common  interest 
elsewhere,  in  their  nationality  and  their  circum- 
stances. She  heard  him  in  that  spirit ;  but  her 
own  future  was  no  concern  to  her.  At  Strasburg, 
among  her  friends  —  at  Madame  Helene's  house 
—  all  would  be  well  there. 

"Of  course  I  shall  go,"  she  said;  "it's  very 
good  of  you  to  trouble  so  much,  and  Edmond  will 
be  grateful.  He  would  not  look  for  me  any- 
where else  when  he  comes  back.  If  I  could  only 
be  sure  that  they  are  treating  him  well." 

She  laughed  at  herself  for  the  naive  confession, 
and  corrected  it  instantly. 

"  You  are  a  Prussian,"  she  said.  "  I  forgot 
that.  And  you  never  told  us  —  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  My  father  made  his  home  in  Germany.  I 
offered  myself  for  the  service.  A  man  cannot 
always  look  at  life  through  empty  wine-bottles. 
Buying  and  selling  are  not  altogether  intellectual 
pursuits,  you  will  admit.  If  I  had  thought  that 
there  was  any  backbone  on  the  other  side,  I  might 
have  gone  there  on  a  sporting  impulse.  All  that 
appealed  to  me  —  order,  method,  strength,  iron 
will  —  is  the  property  -of  the  Saxon.  We  may  not 
like  it,  but  we  must  not  dispute  it.  And  I  ought 


The  Promise  171 

not  to  say  such  things  to  you,  who  are  waiting  for 
breakfast.  Have  you  ever  breakfasted  in  camp 
before,  Beatrix  ?  " 

He  began  to  lead  his  horse  away  from  the  priest's 
cottage  to  the  bivouac  of  dragoons,  and  put  the 
question  as  he  went.  This  half-hour  of  a  subtle 
and  satisfying  intimacy  might  never  return.  He 
rejoiced  in  the  comradeship,  but  from  other  motives 
than  those  which  gave  her  pleasure  in  it.  And  she 
would  remember  only  that  she  had  found  a  friend. 

"  No,"  she  said,  looking  up  to  him  frankly. 
"  I  am  a  soldier's  wife,  and  I  know  nothing  about 
soldiers.  If  your  order  and  your  method  and  your 
iron  will  could  help  some  of  these  poor  people  who 
die  in  the  fields,  I  would  think  more  of  the  Saxon. 
You  can  never  make  good  the  evil  of  yesterday, 
never,  never,  Brandon.  What  is  it  in  us  all  that 
makes  us  callous  to  suffering  as  we  are  now  ? 
When  a  trooper  was  killed  at  Niederbronn  a  week 
ago,  it  was  as  though  one  of  my  own  servants  had 
died  in  our  garden.  I  thought  of  the  poor  fellow 
all  night,  and  prayed  for  him.  Yesterday  the  dead 
were  everywhere,  and  we  passed  them  by  as  though 
they  had  been  stones.  Is  it  i  backbone'  that  gives 
us  the  courage  to  look  at  things  always  through 
the  glasses  of  self?  Why,  at  this  very  minute, 
ought  not  I  to  be  asking  myself  how  I  can  help 
Edmond,  and  not  how  I  can  get  to  Strasburg  ? " 


172       The  Garden  of  Swords 

He  laughed  at  the  unconscious  conceit  of  her 
thought. 

"You  can  help  your  husband  best  by  keeping 
out  of  harm's  way,"  he  said.  "  We  are  not 
savages,  Beatrix,  nor  cannibals  either,  for  that 
matter.  Edmond  is  all  the  better  where  he  is. 
He  won't  be  killed,  anyway,  and  everyone  is  talk- 
ing of  his  fellows  and  their  charge  yesterday. 
Whatever  may  happen  to  the  rank  and  file,  the 
officers  will  be  well  treated,  be  sure  of  that.  I 
would  n't  mind  being  in  their  place  at  all.  They'll 
have  good  quarters,  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink. 
When  the  war's  over  —  and  that's  a  matter  of  a 
few  weeks  at  the  most — they  '11  come  back  whole 
men,  and  not  as  those  poor  fellows  yonder.  Is 
there  anything  to  make  you  sorry  in  that 
prospect  ?  " 

They  had  entered  the  field  of  the  bivouac  then, 
and  he  pointed  to  a  row  of  wounded  infantrymen, 
sitting  beneath  a  tottering  wall,  which  was  the  last 
upstanding  mark  where,  yesterday,  a  prosperous 
farm  had  been.  All  the  men  were  badly  hurt,  yet 
all  bore  their  sufferings  with  unflinching  patience. 
War  had  obliterated  a  memory  of  their  nation- 
ality. A  great  Wurtemberger  nursed  the  head  of 
a  maimed  chasseur,  and  a  gunner  of  France  did 
his  best  to  bind  up  the  shattered  hand  of  one  of 
von  Werder's  men.  Faint  and  wan  and  unat- 


The  Promise  173 

tended,  these  poor  fellows  made  a  brave  attempt 
to  salute  when  the  officer  approached  them;  nor 
did  one  of  them  utter  so  much  as  a  single  word  of 
complaint. 

11  Come,"  said  Brandon,  desiring  to  put  a  bright 
face  upon  it,  "  and  who  is  looking  after  your  break- 
fasts, my  poor  fellows  ?  " 

"Ah,  Herr  Major,  if  it  were  so  much  as  a 
drink  of  water !  I  have  been  here  since  one 
o'clock  yesterday  —  since  one  o'clock  !  My  God, 
it  is  nearly  twenty  hours,  and  my  lips  are  glued 
together." 

Another  opened  his  vest  and  showed  a  jagged 
wound  upon  which  the  blood  had  congealed. 

"  They  are  slow  up  yonder,  but  then  they  are 
not  in  pain,  Herr  Major.  As  for  me,  I  do  not 
count.  I  shall  never  stand  again." 

"  Do  not  talk  so,"  cried  an  old  sergeant,  whose 
arm  had  been  scarred  and  broken  by  a  shell  from 
Froeschweiler ;  "  we  have  our  duty  to  do,  and  all 
this  is  nothing.  The  doctor  will  laugh  at  us  for 
troubling  him.  A  cigar  would  cure  me,  Herr 
Major  —  ah,  you  are  all  too  kind  to  a  useless  old 
man." 

Brandon  distributed  his  cigars  among  them,  and 
called  to  a  trooper  to  fetch  them  water  from  the 
village  and  to  send  the  ambulance.  The  place 
wherein  they  lay  was  a  very  pit  of  blood  and 


174       The  Garden  of  Swords 

agony ;  he  turned  from  it  quickly  when  he  saw 
the  white  face  of  the  girl  at  his  side.  He  knew 
that  she  had  all  the  desire  and  pity  to  serve  them, 
and  he  understood  the  helplessness  she  realised  and 
blamed. 

"It  is  a  doctor's  work,  Beatrix  —  you  would 
only  make  things  worse.  The  ambulance  will  be 
here  just  now,  and  they  have  already  been  looked 
after  in  some  sort  of  way,  as  you  see.  You  need 
a  lot  of  training  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
remember  you  have  had  none  at  all  —  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Brandon,"  she  said  quickly,  "  do  you  not 
despise  me  —  " 

"  Because  you  are  not  a  doctor  ?  Certainly 
not  —  " 

"  No,  not  for  that,  but  for  all  that  I  have  been 
talking  about.  As  if  anything  mattered  when 
those  poor  fellows  suffer !  And  I  am  doing  noth- 
ing, nothing.  I  have  never  done  anything  all  my 
life  —  " 

"You  can  begin  now  by  going  back  to  Madame 
Helene.  She  is  alone  in  Strasburg.  She  will  have 
need  of  you  in  the  days  to  come.  I  am  afraid  they 
will  be  terrible  days,  Beatrix." 

"  Why  should  they  be,  Brandon  ?  " 

"  Because  we  march  to-day." 


The  Promise  175 

Something  of  the  strange  circumstance  of  their 
association  came  in  that  moment  to  both  of  them. 
For  the  first  time  she  read  a  suspicion  of  the  whole 
truth  in  the  look  he  turned  upon  her,  but  she 
would  not  think  of  it  nor  debate  it  in  her  mind 
lest  that  should  be  in  itself  a  dishonour.  After  all, 
he  was  her  husband's  friend.  She  would  trust  her 
life  to  him,  and  Edmond  would  applaud  her  con- 
fidence. 

"  I  will  go  to  Strasburg  now,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  If  only  I  can  hear  of  Edmond  there  !  " 

"  If  that  is  all,"  he  said,  "  I  will  bring  you  the 
news  myself." 

She  laughed. 

"  They  would  shoot  you  for  a  spy,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    CITY    OF    THE    GOLDEN    MISTS 

A  BURLY  man,  with  a  great  black  beard  and  a  sun- 
burnt face,  drove  up  to  the  place  as  she  spoke  and 
exchanged  words  with  Brandon.  He  had  obtained 

o 

a  little  pony-cart,  by  some  occult  means  of  which 
old  travellers  are  the  master;  and  he  sat  in  it, 
smoking  contentedly,  as  one  who  found  nothing 
remarkable  either  in  his  presence  at  Worth  or 
in  the  circumstances  which  brought  him  there. 
When  he  was  introduced  to  her  as  "  Richard 
Watts,"  he  took  his  china  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  lifted  the  brim  of  a  vast  sombrero  hat  stuck 
carelessly  upon  the  very  back  of  his  curly  black 
hair.  He  would  be  a  man  of  sixty  years,  Beatrix 
thought  —  a  man  of  many  cities,  yet  the  servant  of 
none. 

"  Is  this  the  lady  ? '   he  asked  laconically. 

"  This  is  Madame  Lefort,"  said  Brandon ;  "  her 
servant  is  with  her,  but  she  can  go  behind." 

The  stranger  nodded  his  head  and  put  his  pipe 
into  his  mouth  again. 

"  Two,  then,"  he  exclaimed,  and  asked  imme- 
diately, "  Anything  more  ?  " 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    177 

Brandon  laughed. 

"  Mr.  Watts  is  not  accustomed  to  this  kind 
of  luggage,  Beatrix,"  he  said  ;  "  but  he  '11  see  you 
into  Strasburg,  and  he 's  a  safer  escort  than  a 
squadron  of  hussars." 

She  turned  to  him  a  little  anxiously. 

"  But  you  ride  to  Hagenau  ?  " 

"  Certainly —  if  your  people  do  not  say  no." 

Guillaumette  climbed  into  the  cart  laboriously. 

"  Va  la"  she  said,  "  here  goes  a  fine  fat 
goose  to  market.  You  will  not  eat  me,  Mon- 
sieur !  " 

She  sat  jauntily,  her  arms  crossed  and  her 
eyes  upon  the  trooper  who  had  helped  her  to 
her  seat ;  but  the  great  man  in  the  cart  did  not 
notice  her.  He  had  thrust  out  a  huge  hand  to 
grip  Beatrix  by  the  wrist ;  and  now  he  began 
to  address  her  as  he  would  have  addressed  a 
child. 

"  Sit  there  and  hold  the  rail.  The  road  is 
rough,  and  the  pony  stumbles.  Have  you  had 
your  breakfast  ?  —  eh,  yes.  Well,  that  's  all  right. 
You  would  n't  get  any  if  you  had  n't." 

She  turned  to  Brandon. 

"  You  are  not  coming  with  us,  after  all,  then." 

"  Indeed,  and  we  are  —  there  goes  the  bugle." 

Richard  Watts  shrugged  his  tremendous 
shoulders. 


178       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  The  pretty  soldiers,"  he  said ;  "  can't  you  do 
without  them  to-day,  Madame  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  angry  at  the  blunt 
speech.  There  was  something  kind  in  his  big 
eyes,  but  his  manner  was  that  of  a  boor. 

"  If  we  are  a  trouble  to  you,  sir  —  " 

"A  trouble!  God  bless  me — an  English- 
woman !  Geeho  !  Geeho  !  " 

He  lashed  the  pony,  and  they  began  to  jog 
across  the  fields.  She  gazed  —  it  might  be  for 
the  last  time  —  up  at  the  forest  land  where  her 
home  had  been ;  and  she  saw  burning  houses, 
and  churches  which  were  but  quaking  walls,  and 
black  ruins  of  the  homesteads  of  yesterday.  In 
the  vineyards  by  the  river  the  labourers  were 
burying  the  dead.  Rusted  cuirasses,  broken 
helmets,  twisted  swords,  rags  which  had  been 
uniforms,  rifles  in  the  ditches,  horses  stiff  and 
stark  with  their  feet  pointing  upward  to  the  sky 
—  these  were  the  emblems  of  battle  around  her. 
But  the  sun  shone  warm  upon  the  pastures ; 
there  were  gay  tunics  in  all  the  valleys ;  she 
heard  the  music  of  the  drums;  the  romance  of 
war  put  a  cloak  upon  the  reality  of  war.  And 
the  way  lay  to  a  city  and  to  a  home.  She 
desired  with  a^  the  intensity  of  which  she  was 
capable  to  turn  from  that  place  of  death  to  the 
light  and  life  of  Strasburg.  Edmond  would  come 


"  Here  the  story  of  the  flight  was  to  be  read. 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    179 

to   her  there.     She   thanked   God   that    he  was  a 
prisoner,  and  that  war  could  not  harm  him  now. 

They  had  struck  the  great  southern  road  to 
the  city  ;  but  the  way  was  laborious,  for  troops 
followed  it  everywhere,  and  no  turn  of  it  but 
showed  them  the  wavering  lines  of  spiked  hel- 
mets or  the  lances  of  the  Uhlans.  And  here  the 
story  of  the  flight  was  to  be  read  in  all  its  ful- 
ness. Dead  men  with  glassy  eyes  stared  up  at 
them  from  the  foetid  ditches.  Masterless  horses 
galloped  by  the  roadside  whinnying  pitifully  ; 
or  stood  in  wondering  troops,  saddles  still  upon 
their  backs,  and  even  their  own  wounds  to  show. 
No  man  could  have  numbered  the  rifles  cast 
aside  by  the  flying  hosts  of  yesterday.  Broken 
caissons,  gun-carriages  lacking  wheels,  empty 
wagons  shattered  and  plundered,  field-glasses, 
even  letters  and  pocket-books,  and  little  tokens 
whereby  the  names  of  those  who  fled  were  to  be 
learned — these  things  bore  witness  to  the  living 
as  the  graves  upon  the  hillside  bore  witness  to 
the  dead.  But  they  provoked  Beatrix  no  longer 
to  despair  or  pity.  If,  of  the  aftermath,  she 
should  reap  her  lover's  life,  she  would  crave  no 
other  grace.  And  she  was  all  fortunate.  She 
thought  of  the  children  asking  to-day  for  those 
who  nevermore  would  stoop  to  lift  them  to  their 
lips.  How  many  there  were  in  the  very  city  to 


180      The  Garden  of  Swords 

which  this  strange  Englishman  was  taking  her! 
How  many  women  prayed  in  the  silent  churches 
for  those  who  lay  in  the  vineyards  she  was 
leaving !  It  was  not  selfishness,  but  gratitude, 
which  turned  her  thoughts  to  such  a  channel. 

Their  way  lay  to  the  south ;  and  many  a 
hamlet  was  numbered  before  her  companion 
spoke  a  word  or  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 
The  exclamations  of  Guillaumette  fell  upon  deaf 
ears.  It  was  odd  to  be  there  on  the  road  with 
one  she  had  never  seen  before ;  but  the  kaleido- 
scope of  her  life  had  been  turning  swiftly  for 
many  hours.  She  accepted  the  present  as  it 
came  to  her,  and  found  content  therein. 

"You  are  going  to  Strasburg,  Monsieur?" 
she  asked,  for  the  very  sake  of  speaking. 

Richard  Watts  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
very  slowly  and  answered  her  by  another  question. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Monsieur  ! 
Bless  you,  child,  I  'm  no  c  monsieur.'  I  was  born 
within  sound  of  Bow  Bells." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  one  gets  into  the  habit  of 
it  here.  You  are  Mr.  Watts,  are  you  not  ? " 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  Richard  Watts,  young  lady  —  as  much  at 
your  service  as  your  French  friends  will  let 
me  be." 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    181 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  have  any  difficulty  in 
getting  into  Strasburg,  then  ?  " 

"  No  difficulty  at  all  —  and  God  help  us  when 
we  're  there." 

He  smoked  contemplatively  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  continued  : 

"There  is  nothing  good  in  France  to-day, 
young  lady.  I  have  been  fighting  all  my  life, 
and  I  know  what  I  say.  Your  German  friends 
will  be  at  the  gates  of  Strasburg  in  a  week  and 
then  the  fruit  will  fall.  It  rots  on  the  trees  already. 
It  has  been  rotting  since  the  day  that  knaves  began 
to  pluck  it.  Look  at  that  fellow  in  the  ditch  there. 
Yesterday  he  was  all  gold  lace  and  glory.  To-day 
he  is  dead,  and  you  cannot  see  the  gold  lace  for 
mud.  The  glory  has  gone  up  to  the  hills,  where 
the  Prussians  burn  the  farms.  You  have  married 
a  Frenchman,  and  you  do  not  believe  me,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Twenty  years  ago  I  thought  as 
you  did.  It  's  a  long  time,  twenty  years,  Madame 
—  a  long  time.  France  was  the  first  nation  in 
Europe  twenty  years  ago.  In  twenty  years  hence, 
she  may  be  so  again.  These  poor  fellows  could 
not  wait,  you  see." 

A  dead  chasseur  lay  in  the  ditch  at  the  road- 
side. His  head  was  pillowed  upon  his  arm  as 
one  who  slept  a  child's  sleep ;  but  his  splendid 
uniform  had  been  washed  by  the  mud  of  the 


1 82       The  Garden  of  Swords 

fields,  and  the  pillagers  had  cut  off  two  of  his 
fingers  for  the  sake  of  the  rings  he  wore.  Beatrix 
closed  her  eyes  that  she  might  not  see  the  dead 
man's  face.  To  what  new  scenes  of  peril  and 
of  death  was  that  strange  journey  carrying  her  ? 
The  cities  in  danger !  She  could  not  believe  it 
possible. 

"  I  am  going  to  Strasburg  because  my  husband 
will  come  there  when  they  release  him.  I  could 
not  go  anywhere  else,  for  I  have  no  other  friends 
in  France.  If  the  Germans  follow,  it  will  not 
matter.  They  are  gentlemen,  I  am  sure.  Even 
you  admit  that  ?  " 

He  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 

"  You  are  quite  right  to  go,"  he  said, "  and  they 
are  gentlemen,  as  I  admit.  If  war  is  like  a  good 
dinner  and  our  gentlemen  dine  sometimes  —  that 
does  n't  concern  you.  Strasburg  will  suffer,  but 
you  have  English  friends  —  ah,  your  friends  are 
English,  Madame  ?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  And  if  they  are  not  ?  " 

"  In  that  case  we  must  make  the  most  of  a  bad 
job,"  he  said  bluntly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly  to  read  a  face 
hardened  in  a  gravity  very  foreign  to  it.  But 
he  did  not  speak,  and  they  had  left  the  high- 
road now  and  were  in  the  heart  of  the  forest 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    183 

of  Hagenau.  In  and  out,  by  woodland  paths, 
through  avenues  of  chestnuts,  past  little  churches 
which  spoke  of  God's  peace  and  of  all  the  primi- 
tive forest  life,  the  cross-road  carried  them.  All 
the  hubbub  and  turmoil  of  the  great  highway 
was  hushed  here.  Impossible  to  believe,  as  the 
wind  stirred  the  trees  to  a  murmur  of  song  and 
the  glades  opened  their  golden  hearts  to  the  way- 
farer, that  the  things  of  yesterday  had  been  truths. 
War  was  an  hallucination  of  their  sleep.  There 
had  been  no  battle.  Such  contrasts  were  beyond 
the  possibilities. 

"  Who  could  realise  that  we  were  at  Worth  this 
morning  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  as  a  turn  of  the  road 
opened  to  their  view  scenes  of  a  remoter  and  even 
more  sylvan  beauty.  "Is  there  anyone  in  these 
woods  who  would  understand  that  a  great  army 
is  all  around  us,  and  that  those  poor  fellows  lie 
dying  in  the  vineyards  ?  I  don't  believe,  I  cannot 
believe  —  " 

Richard  Watts  smoked  on  doggedly,  but  pres- 
ently he  pulled  up  the  pony  suddenly. 

"  Look  there,  young  lady,"  he  said,  as  he  jerked 
his  whip  in  the  direction  of  a  great  tree ;  "  there  is 
something  to  help  your  incredulity." 

Her  eyes  turned  toward  the  place,  and  she 
shuddered  at  that  which  the  glade  had  hidden 
from  her. 


184       The  Garden  of  Swords 

They  had  taken  a  Uhlan  in  the  forest  and 
hanged  him  from  a  tree.  The  body  swayed  gently 
in  the  breeze,  and  showed  gaping  wounds  upon 
the  hands  and  throat.  A  group  of  hags,  their  faces 
dark  with  the  ferocity  of  anger  unsatiated,  stood  in 
the  shade  of  the  tree  and  greeted  their  own  work 
triumphantly. 

"He  was  taken  at  Berdot's  Farm,  Monsieur  — 
he  rode  up  at  daybreak  and  Henriette  found  him. 
Ah !  she  is  brave,  Henriette.  She  let  the  dogs 
loose,  the  droll.  He  will  not  go  back  to  his  Bis- 
marck to-day,  Monsieur.  And  it  is  our  work  — 
our  work  !  " 

They  screeched  together  as  creatures  of  the 
fables ;  but  the  man  whipped  up  the  pony  and  was 
soon  in  the  heart  of  the  silent  forest  again.  For 
a  long  time  now  he  puffed  at  his  great  pipe  stoic- 
ally ;  but  it  was  not  lost  upon  Beatrix  that  he 
skirted  the  town  of  Hagenau,  and  began  to  go 
faster  as  he  approached  the  city  of  Strasburg. 

"  Is  not  Mr.  North  to  meet  us  there  ?  "  she 
asked  a  little  anxiously. 

He  answered  her  brusquely. 

"After  the  war,  young  lady — we  will  learn 
patience.  I  cannot  wait  to-day.  I  am  flying 
from  the  defenders  of  France  —  as  good  a  French- 
man as  any  of  them." 

"  But  there  are  no  soldiers  here  ?  " 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    185 

"  Glory  be  to  God  for  that !  The  fewer  the 
better.  See  as  few  of  them  as  you  can,  girl." 

She  thought  upon  it  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
exclaimed,  as  though  she  read  his  thoughts  — 

"  My  husband  will  be  very  grateful  to  Mr. 
North." 

The  idea  amused  him.  She  could  hear  him 
chuckling  to  himself. 

"  Will  be  grateful,  young  lady  ?  "  he  asked  pres- 
ently —  "  you  said  grateful  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  No  reason  at  all.  We  are  always  grateful 
when  the  man  who  knocks  us  down  is  the  very 
good  friend  of  our  wife.  Would  not  you  be 
under  the  circumstances  ?  " 

Never,  until  that  moment,  had  there  come 
to  her  the  thought  that  Edmond  might  not 
understand  the  circumstances  which  had  com- 
pelled her  to  seek  Brandon's  friendship.  She 
sat  debating  it  very  silently.  She  would  not 
believe  that  her  companion's  words  were  aught 
but  a  jest ;  and  yet,  as  the  cart  jogged  on,  a 
sense  of  unrest  and  foreboding  displaced  the 
content  with  which  she  had  quitted  Worth.  If 
Edmond  should  not  think  as  she  did  !  If  he 
should  hold  that  war  had  made  that  friendship 
impossible !  She  blamed  herself  that  she  had 
not  thought  of  it  before. 


1 86       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  Of  course  he  will  understand,"  she  said,  rather 
as  one  uttering  her  thoughts  aloud.  "  They  were 
old  friends  in  Strasburg.  And  he  will  know  why 
I  went  to  the  camp.  I  shall  tell  him  all  about 
it  when  he  comes  back  to  Strasburg." 

"  Tell  him  nothing,  child.  A  tale  untold  is 
not  to  be  criticised.  There  is  always  the  off- 
chance.  I  am  an  old  man  and  have  the  right 
to  advise  you.  Go  to  your  friends  in  Strasburg 
and  keep  your  own  secrets.  Too  much  confi- 
dence has  ruined  many  a  man,  and  woman  too. 
Your  husband  will  know  nothing  unless  you  tell 
him.  Why  should  you  make  him  unhappy  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  everything — he  has  the  right  to 
know." 

He  would  not  agree  with  her ;  but  he  watched 
her  with  kindly  eyes,  and  when,  long  hours  after- 
wards, the  city  of  Strasburg,  lying  in  purple  and 
golden  mists  of  the  evening  light,  came  to  their 
view,  he  said  to  her  almost  earnestly  — 

"  If  ever  you  want  a  friend  yonder,  young 
lady,  remember  old  Richard  Watts.  Any  English- 
man in  Strasburg  will  show  you  where  he  lives. 
Come  and  tell  him  all  about  it.  He  understands 
women  and  he  understands  men.  You  will  find 
him  alone  ;  he  has  been  alone  all  his  life." 

She  thought  that  he  spoke  with  an  infinite 
tenderness;  her  own  heart  was  heavy,  and  the 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists   187 

sympathy  he  offered  her  touched  a  plaintive 
chord  of  melancholy  which  the  hour,  and  the 
scene,  and  the  city  of  the  golden  mists  helped 
to  linger  in  her  path.  She  had  come  home, 
indeed  —  the  bride  of  yesterday  —  yet  she  knew 
not  whether  to-morrow  would  permit  the  house 
of  her  affections  to  stand,  or  would  leave  her  one 
true  friend  in  all  France.  The  hosts  of  Germany 
were  about  to  cross  that  plain,  above  which  rose 
up  the  spires  and  pinnacles  of  Strasburg.  The 
very  silence  of  the  night  was  as  of  some  herald 
of  storm  and  tempest  raging  in  the  hearts  of 
men.  But  it  was  fear  for  herself  that  dominated 
her  when  they  entered  the  city  by  the  northern 
gate,  and  the  pony  began  to  trot  toward  the  Broglie 
Platz.  If  Edmond  should  not  understand  ! 

"  I  know  that  you  wish  to  be  kind  to  me," 
she  said,  "  and  I  will  not  forget.  I  have  many 
friends  here,  for  I  am  Madame  Helene's  grand- 
child. Everyone  knows  the  Countess  of  Gorsdorf. 
She  lives  in  the  Place  Kleber." 

Richard  Watts  pulled  the  pony  back  upon 
its  haunches. 

"  Eh,  what 's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  The 
Countess  of  Gorsdorf —  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  my  grandmother." 

"  Then  you  are  the  daughter  of  Marie  Douay 
—  impossible  !  " 


1 88       The  Garden  of  Swords 

The  exclamation  burst  from  him  involuntarily. 
He  sat  quite  still  for  some  minutes,  regarding  her 
very  curiously.  All  about  them  was  the  life  of 
Strasburg,  the  music  of  the  bands,  the  glare  of  the 
lamps  before  the  cafes,  the  buzz  of  tongues,  and 
the  rumbling  wheels.  The  man  saw  nothing  of 
this  life.  He  had  eyes  only  for  his  little  com- 
panion, who  had  just  told  him  that  she  was 
Madame  Helene's  granddaughter.  She,  in  her 
turn,  sat  wondering  at  his  astonishment. 

"  You  do  not  know  Madame  Helene  ? "  she 
asked  presently,  for  he  continued  to  let  the  pony 
stand. 

"  Know  her,  child  —  how  should  I  know 
her  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  stranger  to  Strasburg,  then  ?  " 

He  laughed  hardly. 

"  An  utter  stranger." 

The  words  seemed  to  please  him.  He  repeated 
them  as  though  in  emphasis. 

"  An  utter  stranger,  young  lady  —  without  a 
home  anywhere." 

A  great  idea,  one  of  pity  for  his  loneliness, 
came  to  her.  She  could  not  account  for  her 
friendship,  yet  friendship  she  gave  to  this  rugged 
acquaintance  instinctively. 

"  If  you  would  come  to  the  Place  Kleber,  they 
would  be  very  grateful  to  you,"  she  said.  "  I 


The  City  of  the  Golden  Mists    189 

am  sure  Madame  Helene  would  like  to  thank 
you  herself." 

Again  he  looked  at  her  with  a  curiosity  he 
could  not  cloak. 

"Marie  Douay's  daughter — so  you  are  Marie 
Douay's  daughter  !  "  he  continued  to  mutter,  as 
one  who  has  recalled  forgotten  names  and  places. 
"  Well,  the  world  is  small  indeed.  Do  you  know 
your  way  to  the  Place  Kleber  from  here,  child  ?  " 

She  laughed  at  the  doubt. 

"  Every  inch  of  it." 

11  Then  I  will  say  good-night." 

It  was  an  abrupt  invitation  for  her  to  leave 
him,  and  she  did  not  misunderstand  it.  There 
was  nothing  odd  in  such  a  man  telling  her  that 
here  was  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  will  not  come  with  me,"  she 
repeated,  when  she  stood  at  last  upon  the  pave- 
ment. "  Madame  Helene  would  have  been  so 
glad.  Perhaps  you  will  call  to-morrow  ?  " 

He  thrust  his  hand  over  the  side  of  the  cart 
and  held  hers  for  a  moment  in  a  clasp  which 
almost  crushed  her  fingers. 

"  God  bless  you,  little  passenger,"  he  said, 
ignoring  her  question.  "  Don't  forget  old  Richard 
Watts.  And  mind  you  keep  your  secrets." 

He  was  gone  with  the  words,  away  into  the 
shadows  of  the  great  city.  She  turned  quickly 


The  Garden  of  Swords 

toward  her  own  home,  for  the  bells  of  the  churches 
were  striking  midnight.  As  the  musical  chimes 
rang  out,  they  seemed  to  say,  "  Secrets,  secrets  — 
keep  your  secrets." 

Was  it  true,  then,  that  some  thought,  born 
of  the  impotence  of  France  and  of  yesterday's 
defeat,  had  come  into  her  own  life,  and  that  it 
must  be  hidden  from  Edmond  ?  She  would 
listen  to  no  such  suggestion  of  shame,  but  hurried 
on  to  the  old  home  and  the  beloved  voices,  and 
the  arms  outstretched  to  hold  the  little  wan- 
derer. And  through  the  forests  and  over  the 
mountains  of  France,  by  many  roads  and  wood- 
land paths,  the  hosts  of  Germany  marched  on 
toward  the  city  whose  doom  the  finger  of  fate 
already  had  written. 


BOOK    III 

The  Siege 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE    FIRST    DAYS 

THE  French  fled  from  Worth,  and  the  passes  of 
the  Vosges  were  open  to  the  victorious  armies 
of  the  invader.  Villages,  which  knew  not  why 
war  had  come  to  the  vineyards,  beheld  the  ad- 
vancing hosts  that  carried  the  sword  into  the 
gardens  of  France.  People  said  that  no  man 
might  number  them,  no  general  withstand  them. 
For  a  nation  armed  had  gone  out  against  those 
who  had  betrayed  a  nation.  Old  men  spoke  of 
Austerlitz  and  of  Jena,  and  told  one  another  that 
never  again  would  the  shame  of  the  new  day  be 
forgotten  nor  its  humiliations  avenged.  Peasants 

O  O 

fled  from  their  homes  to  the  shelter  of  the  cities ; 
the  wounded  crawled  to  the  churches  and  lay 
side  by  side  with  the  forgotten  dead.  Every- 
where the  devastating  hand  withered  the  fields 
and  gave  payment  of  their  ashes.  The  curse  was 


192       The  Garden  of  Swords 

upon  France,  men  said.  The  day  of  hope  had 
passed.  Out  there  upon  the  hill  lands  the  spiked 
helmets  glistened  and  the  Uhlans  rode  trium- 
phantly ;  the  hope,  the  courage  of  Paris  seemed 
a  mockery  beyond  words.  For  the  children  cried 
for  bread;  the  dirge  for  the  dead  was  the  daily 
prayer. 

Westward  and  southward  from  Worth  Mac- 
Mahon's  hosts  had  fled  to  tell  the  tale  in  all 
the  towns,  and  even  to  proclaim  it  at  the  gates 
of  Strasburg  and  in  the  cafes  by  the  great  cathe- 
dral there.  The  wounds  the  soldiers  showed, 
the  enduring  fear  of  those  mighty  forces  cross- 
ing the  mountains  so  swiftly,  moved  the  city  to 
belief  and  to  activity.  Men  would  not  stop  to 
ask  why  this  had  been,  this  betrayal  surpassing 
belief,  this  wreck  of  the  glory  of  a  century.  The 
Germans  were  coming  to  the  gates  of  the  city 
they  loved.  All  that  life  could  give  in  defence 
of  that  city  should  be  their  offering  to  France. 
Whatever  else  of  shame  and  of  defeat  contributed 
to  their  country's  harvest  of  the  war,  Strasburg 
at  least  would  play  her  part  with  honour.  Never, 
while  one  stone  stood  upon  another,  would  she 
open  her  gates  to  the  Prussian  king.  The  few 
of  German  heart  and  birth,  who  remained  in- 
different to  the  issues,  found  themselves  silenced 
by  the  greater  voice  of  patriotism.  Citizens  con- 


The  First  Days  193 

gregated  in  all  the  cafes  to  tell  the  good  story. 
"  To  the  last  brick,  comrades  —  our  general  has 
said  so."  And  that  watchword  became  their  own 
from  the  first. 

The  news  came  to  the  city  on  the  seventh 
day  of  August.  The  eighth  day  had  not  dawned 
before  the  great  work  began.  Old  and  young, 
civilians  and  soldiers  —  no  longer  was  there  to 
be  any  distinction  of  age  or  class  or  fitness  for 
the  task.  Even  the  women  went  to  gaze  upon 
the  mighty  citadel,  and  to  tell  each  other  that 
those  glistening  guns  were  greater  than  all  the 
hosts  of  Germany.  In  the  squares  and  public 
places  the  National  Guards  and  francs-tlreurs 
drilled  incessantly.  The  whole  city  was  full  of 
the  sounds  of  war  —  of  squadrons  tramping,  of 
the  blaring  music  of  the  bands,  of  the  rumbling 
of  the  great  guns,  of  the  brisk  word  of  command 
and  of  encouragement.  Even  little  children  were 
taught  to  honour  the  general  who  had  said  that 
Strasburg  should  not  open  her  gates  while  one 
stone  was  left  upon  another. 

While  all  this  was  the  talk  of  the  open  places 
of  the  city,  there  was  to  be  found  in  the  privacy 
of  their  houses  a  determination  as  real,  as  faith- 
ful, as  unwavering  as  the  creed  of  the  multitude 
or  the  gospel  of  the  cafes.  In  the  Place  Kleber 
itself,  Madame  Helene,  that  mistress  of  gentle- 
13 


1 94       The  Garden  of  Swords 

ness  and  of  love,  spoke  of  courage  always ;  of 
courage  and  of  patience,  and  of  a  woman's  work 
for  France.  People  who  passed  the  great  house 
in  the  Place  Kleber  would  point  up  to  the  win- 
dows where  the  beloved  face  was  to  be  seen, 
and  would  tell  each  other  that  there  was  the 
mother  of  the  city,  ever  giving  good  counsel  with 
a  mother's  heart  and  inspiring  them  to  that  self- 
sacrifice  which  is  the  truest  gift  of  motherhood. 
Beatrix  herself,  listening  to  that  gentle  voice, 
would  forget  her  own  regrets  and  all  that  had 
been  since  Edmond  left  the  chalet  at  Nieder- 
wald.  There,  in  the  streets  of  the  city,  were 
those  who  called  for  her  pity  and  her  help. 
Wan  men,  hobbling  upon  crutches ;  great  fellows 
hugging  terrible  wounds ;  lads  robbed  for  ever 
of  the  joy  of  youth  j  old  soldiers  with  tears  upon 
their  cheeks  because  they  could  fight  for  France 
no  more — Worth  had  sent  such  as  these  in  their 
thousands  to  Strasburg.  She  saw  them  sunning 
themselves  in  the  square  before  her  house.  Often 
she  listened  to  the  pathetic  story  of  their  flight. 
She  knew  not  why  destiny  had  so  done  to  them 
yet  had  spared  the  man  she  loved. 

"  If  one  could  only  be  grateful  enough  !  "  she 
said  to  Helene  on  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day 
after  her  return.  "I  feel  sometimes  that  I  have 
lost  the  power  to  be  thankful  for  anything.  It 


The  First  Days  195 

will  be  different  when  Edmond  comes  home. 
And  one  can  only  wait,  wait,  wait." 

But  grandmere  shook  her  head  in  kindly 
rebuke. 

"  Of  ourselves  always,  dear  child  !  Is  there 
no  one  else  but  a  poor  old  woman  and  an  im- 
patient little  wife  in  Strasburg  to-day  ?  Do  not 
the  streets  teach  us  their  lesson  ?  Ah,  the  brave 
hearts  in  the  streets,  Beatrix;  the  brave  men 
who  would  save  our  homes  for  us !  What  are 
we  doing  for  them  —  we,  the  women  of  France  ? 
What  help  shall  we  give  them  when  the  need 
comes  and  the  children  suffer  ?  And  we  must 
help  them.  What  can  we  ask  of  the  poor  when 
the  rich  give  nothing  ?  Let  us  give  abundantly, 
dear  child,  as  it  has  been  given  to  us." 

There  was  a  noble  courage  in  her  voice ;  but 
to  Beatrix  that  voice  was  as  a  sound  from  afar. 
She  believed  no  longer  in  France  or  the  armies 
of  France.  The  mighty  impotence  of  Worth  re- 
mained her  abiding  message.  The  doom  of  the 
city  and  of  her  home  seemed  already  written. 
The  childish  fear,  that  this  lack  of  faith  put  a 
bond  upon  her  love,  grew  day  by  day.  She  was 
not  worthy  of  the  man  who  had  whispered  his 
ambitions  to  her  in  the  chalet  of  the  Niederwald 
and  had  sealed  his  vow  of  faith  in  France  with 
a  lover's  caress.  Her  very  belief  in  the  might 


196       The  Garden  of  Swords 

and  the  glory  of  the  Saxon  stood  against  her  as  a 
sin.  The  future  lay  through  a  valley  of  shadows 
which  gathered  quickly  about  her  path,  and  en- 
veloped her  in  the  gloom  of  foreboding  and  of 
doubt.  She  was  not  a  Frenchwoman  ;  she  never 
would  understand  —  never,  never. 

"  Dear  Helene,  how  good  you  are,"  she  said 
impulsively.  "  I  feel  guilty  when  I  listen  to  you. 
All  that  I  see  here  makes  me  think  of  Edmond. 
If  only  one  could  write  to  him.  If  only  one 
were  sure  that  the  prison  meant  nothing  to  him 
but  four  square  walls  and  a  German  jailor.  It 
would  have  been  different,  perhaps,  a  year  ago  — 
but  now  !  Ah,  mamma,  you  were  never  married 
in  the  Minster,  and  you  never  went  to  the 
Niederwald  for  your  honeymoon.  My  life  has 
changed  since  that  day  they  came  for  him.  I 
don't  think  I  have  any  heart  left.  I  try  to  re- 
member other  things,  but  every  day  the  question 
is,  Will  he  come  this  morning — will  it  be  next 
month,  next  year  —  or  never,  never  again  until 
the  end  ?  " 

She  lifted  a  white  face  to  the  kindly  eyes,  and 
felt  old  Helene's  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  I  cannot  lose  him,  even  for  France,"  she  said 
very  pitifully ;  "  you  are  not  angry  with  me, 
Helene  ?  " 

"  Angry    my  child,   God    forbid  !     A  thousand 


The  First  Days  197 

women's  hearts  are  heavy  as  yours  to-day.  We 
must  not  let  them  see  our  tears,  we  to  whom 
they  look  for  hope  and  courage.  When  Edmond 
comes,  our  hands  must  not  be  empty.  Oh,  think 
of  it,  Beatrix  —  there  are  Germans  at  Schiltigheim, 
Germans  at  the  gates  of  our  own  city.  To-morrow 
—  ah,  God  knows  what  we  shall  see  and  hear 
to-morrow  !  " 

There  were  tears  upon  her  cheeks  as  this  doubt 
for  the  city  of  her  childhood  came  to  trouble  her. 
Beatrix  knew  well  of  what  she  was  thinking. 
The  armies  of  France  had  not  saved  them  yes- 
terday. Who  should  say  that  to-morrow  would 
find  those  armies  victorious  ? 

"  If  all  were  as  you,  dear  Helene,"  she  said 
tenderly,  "  we  need  fear  for  nothing.  And  we 
shall  know  how  to  suffer  for  Edmond's  sake  if 
the  day  comes.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  should 
be  glad  for  it  to  come.  It  is  hard  to  be  a 
woman  when  those  in  whom  you  trust  have  ceased 
to  be  men.  At  Worth  I  believed  that  nothing  in 
all  the  world  could  defeat  the  armies  of  France. 
I  dare  not  tell  you  all  I  saw  there.  Strasburg 
cannot  be  like  that.  Nothing  will  ever  be  like 
that  again." 

"  It  will  be  as  our  destiny  writes  it,  my  child. 
And  we  must  have  faith,  faith  always.  It  is  all  a 
woman  can  offer —  her  whole  heart  and  soul  and 


198       The  Garden  of  Swords 

sympathy  for  those  who  suffer  that  she  may 
have  a  home.  Let  us  give  unstintingly  while 
we  may." 

They  went  together  to  the  windows  of  the 
house  to  watch  the  marching  of  a  regiment, 
which  went  by  with  banners  flying  and  drums 
rolling,  and  all  the  glorious  panoply  of  war.  It 
was  a  sunny  Sabbath  morning  of  August,  and  in 
all  the  steeples  the  bells  were  calling  the  citizens 
to  Mass.  When  the  troops  had  passed  and  the 
cheering  for  the  "  Mother  of  the  City,"  whose 
white  hairs  the  soldiers  had  seen  at  the  window, 
had  died  away,  Beatrix  quitted  the  house  and 
went  alone  toward  the  Minster;  for  thither  the 
citizens  now  turned,  and  there  the  great  service 
of  the  day  was  to  be  held.  She  had  never  seen 
so  many  people  abroad  in  the  streets  of  Stras- 
burg  before;  nor  did  they  wear  the  air  of  those 
who  feared  for  themselves  or  their  houses.  Wom- 
en anticipated  coming  victories  in  colours  which 
would  not  mourn  the  past  irrevocable.  Men 
walked  in  groups  and  spoke  of  the  brave  General 
Uhrich.  Bands  played  everywhere.  The  cafes 
were  scenes  of  mirth  and  excitement.  In  the 
churches  themselves  priests  spoke  of  a  nation 
fighting  God's  battles,  and  moved  their  flocks  to 
a  frenzy  of  applause.  Old  soldiers  told  of  Jena 
and  of  Italy.  Little  children  carried  long  swords 


The  First  Days  199 

at    their   belts,    and   their  watchword    was    "  Aux 
armes" 

By  these  she  passed  quickly,  for  the  bells  told 
her  that  the  service  was  about  to  begin.  In  the 
cathedral  square  she  found  a  great  concourse  of 
people  moved  by  some  savage  impulse  she  could 
not  at  first  understand.  Ferocious  cries  were 
raised;  she  heard  the  smashing  of  glass  in  the 
doors  of  a  cafe,  and  saw  bludgeons  and  sticks 
raised  threateningly  above  the  heads  of  the  people. 
A  man  at  her  side  told  her  that  they  had  caught 
a  spy  and  were  about  to  kill  him.  They  had 
taken  him  in  the  Minster  itself.  He  had  run  to 
the  cafe  for  shelter,  but  they  would  settle  his 
affair,  and  he  would  go  back  to  Germany  no 
more.  Had  it  been  possible,  she  would  have  drawn 
back  from  the  crowd ;  but  the  human  wave  en- 
gulfed her  and  carried  her  forward,  almost  to  the 
doors  of  the  house.  Half  fainting  in  the  press, 
unable  to  make  her  voice  heard,  she  became  un- 
willingly the  spectator  of  that  tragedy  of  the 
Sabbath.  She  saw  the  white-faced  man  in  the 
porch  of  the  house;  she  heard  his  frenzied 
appeals  for  mercy.  Foam  dripped  from  his  lips, 
his  hair  was  dishevelled,  his  coat  torn,  his  hands 
upraised  to  protect  his  face ;  but  no  one  thought 
of  pity  or  of  justice.  Men  struck  at  him  with 
their  fists ;  a  drunkard  threw  a  glass  at  him  and 


2OO       The  Garden  of  Swords 

cut  his  forehead ;  the  blows  of  canes  fell  upon  his 
face  as  whips  that  strike  a  board ;  blood  flowed 
from  his  nostrils.  He  fell  fainting,  and  those 
about  him  beat  out  his  brains  as  he  lay  sense- 
less upon  the  floor. 

The  people  swept  by  with  clamorous  shouts. 
The  spy  was  dead.  Strasburg  had  settled  with 
him.  For  an  instant,  Beatrix  reeled  back  against 
the  window  of  the  cafe.  Everything  in  the  cathe- 
dral square  swam  before  her  eyes.  She  thought 
that  she  would  fall,  but  a  strong  arm  was  placed 
suddenly  about  her  waist,  and  a  voice  that  she 
knew  whispered  a  word  in  her  ear. 

"  Silence,"  was  the  word  ;  "  I  have  brought  the 
news  I  promised  you." 

She  looked  up  at  the  man's  face  and  read  it 
through  his  disguise.  Brandon  North  himself  was 
at  her  side. 


IID 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    FACE    AT    THE    WINDOW 

HE  was  dressed  as  a  Frenchman,  with  a  polished 
silk  hat  and  a  big  bow  carelessly  tied.  For  the 
rest,  his  disguise  was  of  the  slightest,  yet  so  skil- 
fully done  that  a  friend  would  have  passed  him  in 
the  street.  But  he  gave  her  no  opportunity  to 
express  surprise  at  his  presence  there,  nor  at  his 
new  appearance. 

"  Let  us  go  where  there  are  not  so  many 
interesting  people,"  he  said.  "  I  have  much  to 
say  to  you." 

She  was  dizzy  still,  and  pale  and  trembling. 
He  called  a  waiter  from  a  cafe  and  ordered  a 
little  glass  of  brandy.  When  she  had  drunk  it, 
he  began  to  lead  her  away  from  the  cathedral 
towards  the  Rue  de  Kehl.  Her  curiosity  amused 
him. 

"You  see,  I  have  no  business  in  Strasburg,"  he 
said  lightly.  "  People  might  misunderstand  me  as 
they  misunderstood  that  poor  fellow  yonder.  It 
would  be  quite  wrong  of  them  —  but  then,  I  have 
a  regard  for  my  bones." 

She  shuddered. 


2O2       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"They  would  kill  you,  Brandon!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Exactly ;  they  would  kill  me.  It  is  one  of 
the  follies  of  war.  You  beat  out  a  man's  brains 
because  he  might  be  a  spy/  Afterwards  you  are 
sorry,  but  you  cannot  put  his  brains  back  again. 
Forgive  me,  I  am  only  talking  in  general  terms. 
We  had  better  not  particularise  until  we  are  in 
safer  quarters." 

She  stopped  suddenly.  The  peril  in  which  he 
stood,  and  which  she  must  in  some  measure  share, 
was  not  to  be  overlooked.  Many,  both  civilians 
and  soldiers,  were  passing  on  their  way  to  the 
Minster  square.  A  regiment  of  Gardes  Mobiles 
went  by  with  swinging  step  and  merry  music. 
She  knew  that  a  word  whispered  to  them,  a  word 
that  a  Prussian  dragoon  had  entered  Strasburg, 
would  bring  instant  death  to  the  man  who  had 
come  into  the  city  because  of  his  promise  to  her. 

"You  were  wrong  to  come;  I  was  wrong  to 
ask  you,"  she  said  quickly.  "  They  would  never 
understand  —  never." 

He  laughed  lightly  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  We  will  not  consult  them,  Beatrix,"  he  said ; 
"  I  came  here  because  I  knew  you  would  be  anx- 
ious. You  must  give  me  your  word  that  you 
will  not  tell  one  man,  woman,  or  child  in 
all  Strasburg.  It 's  my  only  chance.  Even  old 


A  Face  at  the  Window      203 

Helene  must  not  know.  What  is  n't  known 
cannot  be  misunderstood.  Don't  think  I  have 
come  on  my  own  business  at  all.  If  I  was  that 
sort  of  person  I  would  not  be  at  your  side  now. 
All  that  we  want  to  learn  about  this  place  we 
learnt  a  year  ago  —  and,  of  course  you  have  been 
to  church,  Madame  Lefort  ?  " 

His  voice  and  manner  changed  quickly  as  an 
officer  of  the  guard  elbowed  him  from  the  pavement. 
When  the  man  was  out  of  hearing  he  began 
again  : 

"  That  is  old  Gatelet ;  he  has  dined  with  me 
at  the  Maison  Rouge  many  a  day.  I  wonder 
what  he  would  say  if  he  knew  where  I  had 
been  since  we  saw  each  other  ?  It  is  astonishing 
how  you  forget  your  liking  for  a  man  when  he  's 
on  the  other  side,  especially  when  the  other  side  is 
winning." 

Again  she  checked  her  pace  to  question  him. 

"  Brandon,"  she  said,  "  where  are  you  going  to 
now  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Anywhere,  where  there  are  no  listeners.  I 
am  lodging  for  to-day  with  Madame  Venier,  over 
at  the  little  white  house  there.  She  has  one  of 
the  ministers  from  St.  Thomas's  with  her,  and 
enough  daughters  to  chaperone  a  regiment.  If 
you  would  walk  into  her  parlour — " 


204       The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  stamped  her  foot  angrily. 

"  You  know  that  I  cannot  go." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  '11  forget  that  I  suggested  it. 
But  you  can't  write  to  Edmond  here  at  the  gate." 

"  You    think    that   I  could  write  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  you  could,  for  I  '11  send  the  letter 
myself." 

She  breathed  quickly,  debating  it.  Some  of 
the  men  whom  she  had  seen  in  the  cafe  when  the 
spy  was  struck  down  were  coming  up  the  street. 
She  entered  the  house  when  she  saw  them,  and 
he  followed  her  quickly. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  come,"  she  protested. 
u  Edmond  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  now  — that 's  nonsense.  Why  should  he 
not  forgive  you  ?  I  will  tell  him  all  about  it 
myself — when  the  proper  time  comes.  Mean- 
while, he  is  at  Ulm,  and  will  not  give  his  parole. 
Persuade  him  to,  and  you  may  have  him  back  in 
Strasburg  in  a  week's  time.  But  I  would  n't  if  I 
were  you.  It 's  dangerous,  and  might  lead  to  the 
unexpected.  He 's  living  like  a  prince  where  he 
is,  and  there  are  n't  any  bullets.  There  will  be 
plenty  if  he  comes  back  to  Strasburg." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  said  helplessly. 
"  What  is  the  parole  he  must  give,  and  why  ? " 

He  pointed  to  an  arm-chair,  and  drew  it  up  to 
the  table  for  her. 


A  Face  at  the  Window      205 

"  It 's  just  this  way,"  he  said  —  "  but  will  you 
let  me  smoke  ?  I  have  been  about  the  streets 
all  day  in  this  Sunday  best,  and  it 's  a  little  heavy 
for  the  nerves." 

She  nodded  her  head  quickly,  while  he  filled 
the  pipe  and  lighted  it  deliberately.  The  sense  of 
their  danger  was  more  sure  every  moment  that  she 
lingered  there.  The  horrid  scene  at  the  doors  of 
the  Minster  still  haunted  her  eyes.  This  man  at 
her  side  might  make  another  scene  such  as  that  — 
and  for  her  sake. 

"  I  am  waiting  to  hear  about  the  parole,"  she 
said. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  bluntly,  "  it 's  this  way. 
If  he  will  promise  not  to  bear  arms  against 
Germany  for  the  rest  of  the  war,  they  '11  send  him 
back  to  you.  I  know  Edmond  well.  He  won't 
give  that  promise  unless  you  ask  it.  And  if  he 
gives  it,  and  comes  back  to  Strasburg,  a  week 
will  find  him  on  the  fortifications." 

"  In  which  case  ?  " 

"  In  which  case  they  will  shoot  him  when  we 
take  the  city." 

He  did  not  speak  boastfully,  but  there  was 
behind  his  words  a  soup$on  of  that  arrogance  which 
victory  may  give  even  to  a  man  incapable  of 
common  emotions.  She  heard  him  as  one  who 
neither  counselled  nor  dissuaded  her,  but  left  every- 


206      The  Garden  of  Swords 

thing  to  her  own  judgment.  Never  had  she  been 
asked  to  decide  a  question  so  momentous. 

"  You  know  that  I  cannot  write  it,"  she  ex- 
claimed hotly ;  "  he  would  think  I  did  not  wish 
him  to  return." 

"  Very  well ;  but  you  know  what  you  are  risk- 
ing. He  will  certainly  be  shot  when  we  come  in." 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  she  said  ;  "  what  a  cruel  thing 
war  is  ! " 

"  To  the  vanquished,  of  course.  The  mischief 
is  that  our  French  friends  never  know  when  they 
are  vanquished.  Edmond  will  be  like  the  others. 
He  will  give  his  word  —  and  break  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  exclaimed  emphati- 
cally ;  "  when  he  comes  to  the  Place  Kleber  he 
will  listen  to  me.  I  shall  make  it  a  point  of 
honour  between  us.  He  may  break  his  word  to 
you,  but  he  never  will  to  me." 

"  Then  write  the  letter  now.  It  shall  go  to 
Ulm  to-morrow.  I  don't  hunger  for  the  sights 
of  Strasburg,  you  may  be  sure.  To-night  will  see 
me  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  and  thankful  to 
be  there." 

"  Brandon,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  much  I  owe 
to  you  !  " 

He  laughed. 

"  I  should  be  a  poor  man  if  all  my  ledger 
accounts  were  like  yours,  Beatrix." 


A  Face  at  the  Window      207 

He  began  to  pace  the  room  that  she  might 
write  uninterruptedly.  For  a  long  while  she  sat 
contemplating  the  white  paper  before  her.  Though 
she  had  combated  his  assertions,  she  knew  in  her 
heart  that  he  spoke  the  truth,  and  that  the  letter 
which  brought  her  husband  back  to  Strasburg 
might  also  be  his  death-warrant.  Edmond  would 
never  resist  the  spirit  then  prevailing  in  the  city. 
He  would  go  to  the  fortifications,  and  the  Prus- 
sians would  take  him  there.  They  would  shoot 
him  as  one  who  had  broken  his  parole,  and  hers 
would  be  the  word  which  called  him  back  to  his 
doom.  She  could  not  write  that  word ;  she  must 
leave  it  to  his  judgment,  she  thought.  Nor  could 
she  tell  him  why  she  hesitated.  Impossible  to 
say  "  I  fear  that  you  will  break  your  oath." 
Rather,  she  wrote  words  of  love  and  sympathy, 
narrating  all  that  had  happened  at  Strasburg  —  her 
meeting  with  her  old  friend,  Brandon  North,  on 
the  evening  of  the  battle,  the  strange  companion 
she  had  found  upon  the  road,  the  anticipations 
of  a  siege,  the  news  that  the  Prussians  were  at 
Schiltigheim.  But  she  did  not  say,  IC  Come  back 
to  me,"  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she 
sealed  the  letter. 

"Well,"  said  Brandon,  who  had  watched  her 
closely,  "  you  have  finished  it." 

She  turned  away  sadly. 


208       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  I  have  flattered  you  by  taking  your  opinion." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  count  in  the  matter.  But  I  am 
sure  you  are  wise,  Beatrix.  Another  month  will 
finish  this  business.  Better  for  him  to  come 
home  then  with  whole  bones  than  now  —  to  God 
knows  what.  And  you  —  of  course,  you  are 
leaving  Strasburg  ?  " 

"  Leaving  Strasburg  —  why  ? " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Because  the  Prussians  are  at  Schiltigheim." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

He  laughed  —  almost  brutally,  she  thought. 

"  Not  at  all ;  it  is  only  the  beginning.  In 
a  month  there  will  be  no  Strasburg  to  remain 
in.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  too  frank.  One  seems 
able  to  talk  to  you  as  one  talks  to  no  one 
else.  I  suppose  it's  because  we're  both  English, 
Beatrix." 

She  thought  that  the  confession  was  an  indirect 
sneer  at  her  husband ;  her  cheeks  crimsoned  in 
resentment. 

"  There  is  no  other  country  but  England  ?  "  she 
exclaimed  ironically. 

"  I  think  so,"  he  said  simply. 

The  great  pride  of  his  belief  appealed  to  her. 
She  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"  Edmond  is  your  friend,"  she  exclaimed ; 
"  you  will  except  him  always.  And  I  am  very 


A  Face  at  the  Window      209 

grateful  to  you,  Brandon  —  more  grateful  than  I 
can  say." 

He  pooh-poohed  her  expression  of  thanks,  and 
was  about  to  take  leave  of  her  when  a  face,  thrust 
close  to  the  window,  made  them  both  draw  back. 
It  was  the  face  of  Gatelet,  the  officer  of  the 
National  Guard,  whom  they  had  passed  in  the 
street  an  hour  ago.  Visible  for  an  instant,  it  dis- 
appeared at  once  as  .Brandon  turned  with  a  startled 
exclamation  and  took  a  step  to  the  window. 

"  Gatelet  —  by  all  that 's  unlucky,"  he  said, 
standing  irresolute  and  concealing  from  her  all 
that  moment  meant  to  him.  She,  in  turn,  was 
conscious  of  a  tremor  of  excitement  and  a  dread 
unlike  anything  she  had  ever  known. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Brandon  —  if  he  should  have 
recognised  you  !  " 

He  forced  a  laugh,  but  took  up  his  hat  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  feigning  merriment, "  it  would 
certainly  be  unpleasant,  Beatrix." 

"  But  you  will  leave  Strasburg  —  now,  this 
moment." 

"  Not  at  all  —  I  am  going  for  a  walk  to  the 
cafe  of  the  Contades." 

"  To  tell  all  the  city  that  you  are  here." 

He  began  to  put  on  his  gloves. 

"  Gatelet  certainly  recognised  me,  or  he  would 


2io       The  Garden  of  Swords 

not  have  come  back.  As  he  does  not  know  my 
business  and  will  not  trouble  himself  to  guess  it, 
the  odds  are  that  he  takes  me  for  a  spy.  In 
that  case  I  am  going  to  give  them  a  run  for 
their  money,  Beatrix.  Once  the  sun  does  me 
the  favour  to  set,  I  shall  get  to  Schiltigheim  with- 
out trouble.  Meanwhile  I  prefer  the  open — you 
understand." 

They  left  the  house  together.  There  was  no 
one  before  its  doors.  She  watched  him  striding 
along  the  road  to  the  gardens.  She  knew  that 
he  had  come  to  the  city  for  her  sake,  and  she 
trembled  when  she  contemplated  the  position  in 
which  his  friendship  for  her  had  placed  him. 

Nor  could  she  hide  it  from  herself  that  she  was 
helping  one  who  yesterday  was,  and  to-morrow 
would  be,  the  enemy  of  that  country  which  had 
given  her  a  lover  and  a  home. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    TERROR 

MANY  fled  from  the  city  in  the  week  that  followed 
that  memorable  Sunday  ;  but  old  Helene  remained 
in  the  Place  Kleber.  No  word  or  argument 
would  turn  her  from  her  purpose.  The  people 
looked  to  her  for  example.  She  would  not  fail 
them.  Even  the  Bishop  himself,  who  came  daily 
to  her  house  to  counsel  flight,  could  not  persuade 
her. 

11 1  have  lived  here  for  fifty  years,"  she  said  ; 
"  am  I  to  run  away  now  because  the  gates  are 
closed  to  the  enemies  of  France  ?  Is  that  your 
advice,  monseigneur  ?  Shall  we  leave  the  sick  in 
their  beds  and  the  wounded  to  die  in  the  streets  ? 
Shall  we  say,  l  Good-bye,  brave  fellows ;  when  the 
war  is  done  we  will  come  back  from  Geneva  to 
thank  you  '  ?  Is  this  our  trust  in  the  God  of 
France  ?  Ah,  you  do  not  think  so,  my  good  friend 
—  you  do  not  wish  it." 

The  Bishop  shook  his  head,  but  could  not  gain- 
say her. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  is  about  to  happen 
to  us,"  he  said  gently ;  "  every  day  there  are  more 


212       The  Garden  of  Swords 

Prussians  in  the  Ruprecht's  Au.  Guns  are  coming 
always  from  Coblentz  and  Wesel  and  Magde- 
burg. They  will  not  leave  one  stone  upon  an- 
other —  I  tremble  for  you  and  yours,  my  daughter. 
Yet,  God  knows,  we  should  be  grateful  for  your 
courage." 

There  was  no  braver  man  in  Strasburg,  and  he 
would  leave  the  Place  Kleber  with  a  glad  heart 
after  .such  a  talk  as  this.  To  all  who  doubted,  or 
were  craven  or  of  little  faith,  he  said  — 

"  Go  to  Madame  Helene,  my  son.  She  is  a 
woman,  and  she  will  protect  you.  While  one 
stone  stands  upon  another,  the  Mother  of  the  City 
prays  for  her  children.  Go  to  her,  and  tell  her 
that  you  wish  the  General  to  open  the  gates." 

They  turned  away  ashamed,  and  went  abroad  to 
spread  the  good  tidings.  Everywhere  the  placid 
life  of  the  great  house  was  an  example  for  the  city. 
And  never  was  example  needed  so  sorely  by  a 
people.  Day  by  day  the  news  was  more  grave, 
the  situation  more  hopeless.  Now  tidings  of  von 
Werder's  march,  now  news  of  the  Prussian  guns, 
now  of  the  fall  of  villages  —  every  hour  added  to 
the  dismay  and  the  panic.  Unwillingly  men  and 
women  began  to  realise  that  their  mighty  citadel, 
their  ramparts,  which  had  stood  up  during  the 
centuries,  were  powerless  to  break  the  girdle  of 
iron  which  cut  them  off  from  France  and  liberty 


The  Beginning  of  the  Terror    213 

and  even  the  common  things  of  life.  They  spoke 
of  courage,  of  endurance,  of  resistance  to  the  last 
man ;  yet  this  talk  was  for  the  cafe  and  the 
market-place.  At  home,  with  their  children  about 
them,  they  began  to  forget  even  the  vocations 
which  gave  them  bread.  Unrest  and  doubt  were 
everywhere.  When  the  first  of  the  guns  was 
heard,  and  men  knew  that  at  last  the  hour  was  at 
hand,  they  went  bravely  through  the  streets ;  but 
the  thought  of  each  one  was  for  the  house  which 
sheltered  him,  for  the  safety  of  those  whom  it  had 
been  his  life's  task  to  foster. 

Beatrix  was  often  abroad  in  the  streets  of  the 
city  after  the  day  of  her  meeting  with  Brandon 
North ;  but  she  did  not  fear  as  the  others  about 
her,  nor  share  their  apprehensions.  The  safety  of 
Strasburg  was  no  longer  of  moment  to  her.  She 
counted  the  days  which  should  bring  her  some 
news  of  Edmond  or  of  her  letter.  There  was 
always  In  her  mind  the  thought  that  Brandon 
might  come  again,  and  that  her  secret  would  be 
discovered.  She  could  imagine  a  guilt  of  that 
secrecy  which  others,  perchance,  would  not  lay  to 
her  charge.  The  doubt  that  Edmond  might  not 
approve,  might  even  blame  her  for  the  friendship, 
was  not  to  be  satisfied.  She  did  not  know  if 
Brandon  had  escaped  again  after  his  flight  from 
the  Rue  de  Kehl.  Wherever,  in  the  public  places, 


214       The  Garden  of  Swords 

she  saw  a  concourse  of  people,  then  her  heart 
faltered  and  her  step  trembled.  She  could  not 
forget  that  white  face  in  the  cafe  —  the  blood  that 
trickled  upon  it,  the  merciless  canes  which  beat 
it  down.  If  that  man  had  been  her  English 
friend ! 

Night  and  day  she  thought  of  these  things, 
sleeping  little,  walking  abroad  for  the  very  sake 
of  solitude.  It  was  a  strain  to  eat  at  the  great 
table,  and  to  hear  old  Helene's  brave  words,  and  to 
realise  how  little  she  shared  that  enduring  belief  in 
the  glory  of  France  and  the  hopes  for  the  days 
to  come.  Sometimes  she  had  the  impulse  to  tell 
all,  to  say,  "  I  have  seen  Brandon  in  the  Rue  de 
Kehl,  and  he  has  taken  my  letter  to  Ulm."  Her 
promise  remained,  however.  A  whisper  might 
endanger  the  life  of  the  man  who  had  risked  so 
much  to  save  her.  She  could  satisfy  her  own 
conscience,  but  not  the  reason  of  others,  she 
thought. 

There  were  few  of  her  friends  in  the  city,  but 
such  as  braved  the  siege  she  saw  every  day ;  and 
forgot  her  own  care  in  the  babble  of  news  and 
scandal.  Pretty  Therese  Lavencourt  and  Georgine 
took  her  to  the  gardens  often  ;  and  it  was  in  the 
gardens,  just  ten  days  after  Brandon's  flight,  that 
she  first  met  the  man  Gatelet  again,  and  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  him.  She  knew  that  her 


The  Beginning  of  the  Terror    215 

cheeks  flushed  crimson,  and  she  could  hear  her 
heart  beating ;  but  she  was  smiling  when  she  took 
his  hand,  and  she  realised  what  part  she  must 
play. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  gaily,  "  then  the  guns  do  not 
keep  you  from  the  gardens,  ladies  ? " 

Therese  Lavencourt  laughed  in  that  high  key 
which  was  the  terror  of  amateur  pianists  who 
played  often  at  her  mother's  house. 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  here,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

He  bowed  at  the  compliment,  and  other  officers, 
hussars,  and  francs-tireurs  came  up  to  the  place. 

"  Here  is  Mademoiselle  Lavencourt,  come  to 
dance  to  the  music  of  the  guns,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  we  shall  make  a  set  of  quadrilles,  eh, 
Duvisne !  " 

A  very  thin  lancer,  thus  appealed  to,  answered : 

"The  set  would  only  be  complete  when  the 
Captain  comes  back.  Have  you  any  news  of  your 
husband,  Madame  Lefort  ?  " 

Beatrix  looked  at  Gatelet  in  spite  of  herself,  but 
answered  frankly  — 

"I  believe  he  is  at  Ulm,  Monsieur.  He  will 
not  give  his  parole,  and  we  must  wait  for  your 
dance  until  the  war  is  over." 

"  Bravo,  bravo  !  "  cried  several  voices  together, 
but  Gatelet  said  — 

"  If  only  the  Germans  would  wait  also  !    There 


216       The  Garden  of  Swords 

is  too  much  brass  in  their  band  for  my  taste. 
Yesterday  they  played  all  day  upon  the  Porte 
Saverne.  You  can  hear  the  music  now  if  you 
will  listen  —  " 

They  waited  a  moment,  and  a  low  booming 
report  seemed  to  shake  the  very  ground  beneath 
their  feet.  Therese  Lavencourt  laughed  again, 
but  Georgine,  a  plump  blonde  from  Rouen,  feigned 
alarm,  and  leaned  heavily  upon  the  young  lancer's 
arm. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "  how  silly  of  me  ! 
And  I  have  no  husband  at  Ulm  !  " 

Therese  Lavencourt  took  up  the  theme  as  they 
all  began  to  walk  slowly  toward  a  stand  where  the 
band  played  a  military  march  with  all  that  fervour 
which  marked  the  faith  of  Strasburg  in  the  first 
days  of  her  isolation. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  husbands,"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  glance  at  a  captain  of  hussars  which  was 
unmistakable;  "  first  you  want  them  to  show  them- 
selves ;  then  you  want  them  to  go  away.  When 
they  are  gone,  you  shed  tears.  How  silly  it  all 
is  !  And,  of  course,  one  pretends  to  be  sorry,  and 
all  that.  As  if  there  was  nothing  else  in  life  but 
marriage  !  " 

"  Nevertheless,  marriage  is  decidedly  amusing," 
exclaimed  the  captain  of  hussars.  It  was  the  very 
subject  he  desired  to  speak  about. 


The  Beginning  of  the  Terror    217 

Light  wit  and  shallow  talk  drew  the  little  group 
away  from  the  music  to  the  shelter  of  the  shrub- 
beries. Beatrix  found  herself  suddenly  alone  with 
Gatelet.  She  was  sure  that  he  had  contrived  the  ren- 
dezvous, and  he  took  up  the  conversation  at  once. 

"  You  hear  that,  Madame  Lefort.  But  you  do 
not  agree  with  it,  of  course.  If  she  had  said  that 
marriage  was  exciting  —  " 

u  Exciting,  Monsieur  ?  " 

He  laughed  brutally. 

"  Certainly ;   I  said  exciting." 

She  answered  him  very  coldly  : 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  the  question." 

"Naturally  —  you  leave  others  to  think.  Your 
friends,  for  instance.  Pray  count  me  among  the 
number." 

The  very  suggestion  was  an  insult  —  a  subtle 
insult ;  but  she  realised  that  in  some  way  this  man 
shared  a  secret  momentous  to  her  happiness,  and 
she  restrained  her  just  resentment. 

"  You  were  my  husband's  friend,  Monsieur 
Gatelet ;  I  am  sure  you  are  mine." 

"  Do  not  doubt  it.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  the 
faces  one  knows  when  so  many  are  missing.  I 
think  often  of  our  old  acquaintances — of  Tripard, 
and  Giraud,  and  Chandellier,  and  the  Englishman. 
Ah,  you  remember  the  Englishman,  Brandon  North, 
Madame  ?  " 


2i 8       The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  doubted  no  longer  that  he  knew  the  truth. 
Hot  blood  flushed  her  cheeks  crimson.  This  man 
shared  her  secret,  then  —  this  man  who  had  twice 
insulted  her  in  as  many  minutes. 

"  I  remember  Mr.  Brandon  North,  certainly," 
she  exclaimed,  making  a  supreme  effort  to  retain 
her  self-control ;  "  he  was  one  of  my  husband's 
friends." 

The  man  nodded  his  head  cunningly. 

"I  am  sure  of  it  —  as  he  is  a  friend  of  yours, 
Madame.  You  will  be  glad  on  that  account  to 
know  that  he  is  still  in  Strasburg." 

She  was  not  actress  enough  to  restrain  the  cry 
which  came  to  her  lips. 

"Still  in  Strasburg,  Monsieur  —  Mr.  North  in 
Strasburg ! " 

He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  began  to  speak 
with  a  familiarity  which  he  claimed  of  his  know- 
ledge. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  ;  "  you  can  trust  me.  When 
he  left  you  last  Sunday — do  not  mind  that  I  know 

—  I   am   a   man   of  honour  —  when   he   left   you 
last  Sunday  he   meant  to  go  back  to  his   German 
friends.     But  a  little  accident  happened,  Madame 

—  you  never  thought  of  that.     He  wished  to  leave 
us,  but  he  was  not  able.     At  the  corner  of  the 
Rue   de   Kehl  a   gun-carriage   crushed    his   ankle. 
He   fell   fainting,  but   it   was    I   who   helped    him 


The  Beginning  of  the  Terror    219 

up.  c  He  is  the  good  friend  of  Madame  Lefort,' 
I  said ;  c  he  shall  suffer  nothing  at  my  hands,  for 
I  am  sure  he  is  not  here  to  spy  out  our  secrets. 
And  he  is  in  Strasburg  now,  at  the  house  of 
Madame  Clairon  in  the  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel.  He 
waits  for  you  to  go  there ;  you  will  not  disappoint 
him." 

He  released  her  hand,  and  with  a  familiar  salute, 
the  meaning  of  which  was  unmistakable,  he  left 
her.  His  words  were  as  a  blow  upon  her  face. 
She  knew  that  the  life  of  her  friend  was  in  this 
man's  keeping  —  the  gift  of  one  who  had  put  upon 
her  the  ultimate  insult. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE    RUE    DE    I/ARC-EN-CIEL 

HE  had  left  her  at  the  gate  of  the  gardens ;  but 
she  did  not  seek  her  friends  again,  nor  think  of 
going  home.  Conscious  of  no  guilt,  her  own 
silence  was  in  itself  as  the  accusation  of  a  crime. 
In  this  man's  eyes  she  was  condemned.  He 
believed  the  worst ;  she  had  permitted  him  to 
believe  it.  All  her  surpassing  love  for  Edmond 
had  brought  her  but  this  as  its  reward  —  that  a 
stranger  should  have  the  right  thus  to  charge  her. 
And  she  could  not  defend  herself.  A  word  would 
sacrifice  the  life  of  him  who  had  laughed  at  the 
perils  of  the  city  that  she  might  have  news  of  her 
husband.  The  ultimate  penalty  of  her  folly  —  if 
folly  it  were  —  must  be  paid.  Gatelet  had  spared 
the  life  of  her  friend  because  he  believed  the  worst 
of  their  friendship.  Any  motive  less  strong  would 
not  have  sealed  his  lips.  Even  her  confusing  logic 
taught  her  that.  If  Brandon  were  not  to  die  as 
that  other  before  the  gates  of  the  Minster,  she 
must  suffer  the  shame  which  his  presence  in  Stras- 
burg  had  put  upon  her.  The  very  thought  of  it 
burned  her  as  a  fever.  She  passed  through  the 


The  Rue  de  1'Arc-en-Ciel     221 

city,  heedless  of  the  sights  and  sounds  around  her. 
She  felt  that  she  had  no  longer  a  home  in  that 
place.  She  shrank  from  men's  gaze  and  the  touch 
of  women. 

It  was  growing  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she 
left  the  gardens.  A  new  and  strange  activity  was 
to  be  observed  in  the  streets  around  her.  By  here 
and  there  groups  of  men  discussed  the  great  news, 
how  that  General  von  Werder  himself  was  at 
Hausberge  with  two  hundred  field-pieces  and 
many  mortars  to  shell  the  northern  ramparts  of 
the  city.  Officers  of  the  staff  galloped  recklessly 
through  the  narrow  thoroughfares  with  despatches 
from  the  Governor  to  the  citadel.  Shopkeepers 
stood  at  the  doors  of  their  houses,  and  bewailed 
each  other's  misfortunes.  In  the  air  above  was  a 
tremulous  suggestion  of  distant  sounds,  of  the  roar 
of  heavy  artillery  and  the  intervals  of  silence  at- 
tendant. Once  a  man  touched  her  upon  the 
shoulder  and  counselled  her  to  walk  beneath  the 
eaves  of  the  houses. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  they  have  killed  a 
woman  to-day  in  the  Rue  du  Bain  aux  Plantes, 
Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  walk  in  the  open." 

She  thanked  him,  and  passed  on.  It  was  odd  to 
be  told  that  there  was  danger  in  the  streets  of  that 
great  city,  to  which  she  had  fled  for  safety;  yet 
neither  the  peril  nor  the  warning  remained  in  her 


222       The  Garden  of  Swords 

thoughts.  Again  and  again  she  heard  the  words 
which  had  been  spoken  —  "  he  is  still  in  Strasburg  j 
he  waits  for  you  ;  go  to  him."  Her  quick  imagin- 
ation depicted  Brandon  lying  there,  in  the  darkened 
room,  helpless,  alone,  perchance  even  suffering. 
For  her  sake  he  had  come  to  Strasburg  ;  for  her 
sake,  to  gratify  her  impatience,  he  had  put  his  life 
into  the  hands  of  the  man  who  had  insulted  her. 
And  she  could  not  reward  the  sacrifice.  She  must 
leave  him  alone  still.  She  dare  not  go  to  the 
house.  He  had  sealed  her  lips ;  she  could  ask  coun- 
sel of  none: 

This  reflection  of  her  own  helplessness  and  of 
Brandon's  peril  pursued  her  without  mercy.  She 
feared  to  return  to  the  Place  Kleber,  where  she 
must  hear  old  Helene's  platitudes,  and  be  questioned 
upon  the  trivial  events  of  a  trivial  day.  She  would 
be  alone,  face  to  face  with  the  change  that  a  word 
had  brought  into  her  life.  How  different,  she 
thought,  were  all  things  yesterday.  Her  secret  had 
been  her  own  then.  She  had  looked  upon  Stras- 
burg as  a  refuge  and  a  home  until  Edmond  should 
return  to  her.  The  city  would  never  be  that 
again.  All  the  gathering  terror  of  the  siege 
affrighted  her.  The  regiments  marching,  the 
rumbling  guns,  the  galloping  horses  deafened  her 
as  with  crashing  noises.  She  shrank  from  the 
excited  throngs;  she  feared  every  cry,  every  im- 


The  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel     223 

pulse  of  the  crowds  lest  they  should  tell  of  a  new 
spy  brought  to  justice.  Yet,  in  her  own  mind, 
she  did  not  doubt  for  an  instant  the  fidelity  or  the 
honour  of  the  man  who  wished  to  serve  her. 
Brandon  was  no  spy.  He  was  one  who  had  reck- 
lessly staked  his  own  life  that  he  might  keep  his 
promise  to  her.  And  he  was  in  peril.  She  re- 
peated the  word  always.  An  hour  might  bring 
discovery  and  death.  She  was  the  one  friend  who 
knew  of  his  presence  in  the  city  ;  and  she  might 
not  see  him.  What  woman's  logic  made  such  a 
law  for  her  she  could  not  explain.  But  she  held 
to  her  idea  tenaciously,  and,  maintaining  it,  she 
turned  into  the  square  before  the  Minster  and 
entered  the  great  church  itself. 

There  were  many  in  the  nave  and  chapels  of 
the  cathedral,  praying  at  the  altars  for  those  who 
served  France,  or  had  died  in  her  service.  Fan- 
tastic lights  streamed  down  through  the  glorious 
windows,  and  shed  a  lustre  of  crimson  and  green 
and  violet  upon  the  sunbeams  which  lingered  yet  in 
the  first  hour  of  evening.  From  without,  a  mur- 
mur was  to  be  heard,  as  of  squadrons  tramping 
and  the  voices  of  many  men.  Ever  and  anon, 
even  those  mighty  walls  trembled  as  the  thunder 
of  the  cannonade  rolled  heavily  upon  the  distant 
horizon  of  hill  and  vineyard.  But  no  voice  was 
raised  to  mar  the  majestic  silence  within  the 


224       The  Garden  of  Swords 

splendid  church  ;  and  it  seemed  to  Beatrix,  as  she 
knelt  for  a  few  moments  in  the  chapel  of  St.  John, 
that  here,  at  least,  was  the  abiding  place  of  God's 
peace,  here  the  haven  which  the  city  gave  her  no 
longer. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  help  me  —  help  me  to  save 
him!" 

She  had  no  other  prayer.  The  vulgar  dictates 
of  prudence  and  the  customs  could  not  prevail  in 
that  sanctuary,  where  the  counsel  of  love  and 
sacrifice  was  the  daily  word.  Gradually,  as  her 
mind  began  to  gather  up  its  little  threads  of 
argument,  her  woman's  nature  conquered  her. 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  a  coward  for  desert- 
ing the  man  whose  peril  was  of  her  own  making. 
No  love,  she  argued,  would  justify  a  requital  so 
base.  And  Brandon  was  an  Englishman,  alone 
there,  lamed,  helpless  among  those  who  would 
consider  themselves  his  enemies.  Well  she  knew 
that  if  her  husband  were  in  the  city,  he  would  be 
the  first  to  go  to  the  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel.  He 
had  no  friend  in  all  Strasburg  whom  he  had  trusted 
as  he  trusted  Brandon  North,  the  Englishman. 
When  he  heard  her  story,  he  might  well  charge 
her  with  the  betrayal  and  desertion  of  his  friend  and 
comrade.  And,  she  asked  herself,  was  her  own 
love  to  be  the  sport  of  every  coward  who  chose  to 
spy  upon  her  ?  She  had  shame  of  the  thought  that 


The  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel      225 

Gatelet's  innuendos  had  been  anything  but  a  matter 
of  scornful  indifference  to  her.  She  would  tell 
Edmond,  when  he  returned,  would  tell  him  all ;  the 
debt  should  be  repaid.  And  she  would  go  to  the 
Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel.  She  was  determined  upon 
that  now.  Brandon  must  have  a  friend  to  help 
him.  He  might  even  lack  common  necessaries. 
A  woman's  pity  for  one  who  suffered  was  the  final 
argument.  She  left  the  church  with  beating  heart, 
and  turned  her  face  toward  the  house  which  har- 
boured her  friend. 

It  was  almost  dark  then.  A  lurid  glow  of 
wavering  crimson  light  hovered  in  the  sky  to 
the  northward  and  the  eastward.  She  knew  that 
the  shells  were  falling  there,  that  there  lay  the 
terror  of  which  men  spoke  in  hushed  voices. 
Everywhere  the  people  were  seeking  the  shelter 
of  house  or  cafe ;  soldiers  alone  moved  in  the 
deserted  streets.  Many  of  them  black  with  pow- 
der, many  fresh  from  the  ramparts,  a  few  drunk 
and  reeling,  they  gave  her  coarse  greeting  or 
even  laid  rough  hands  upon  her.  But  she 
continued  unflinchingly,  thinking  always  that 
Brandon  was  waiting  for  her,  or,  it  might  be, 
accusing  that  ingratitude  which  detained  her. 
When,  some  little  way  from  the  cathedral,  a 
shell  struck  a  house  above  her  with  a  great 
crash,  and  masonry  fell  heavily  upon  the  pave- 
15 


226       The  Garden  of  Swords 

ment  at  her  very  feet  she  shrank  back  terrified 
into  the  porch  of  the  house,  but  abated  nothing 
of  her  resolution.  She  could  hear  the  screams 
of  the  people  in  the  rooms  upstairs  ;  she  beheld 
a  wrecked  apartment,  the  walls  shattered,  the 
roof  pierced,  the  fire  raging  in  the  debris  —  but 
no  thought  of  sorrow  for  the  people  or  of  their 
necessity  detained  her.  Rather  she  fled  from 
the  gaping  crowd  that  gathered  quickly  in  the 
street,  for  she  feared  that  someone  would  follow 
her  —  some  word  of  hers  betray  her  errand. 
When  she  entered  the  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel  she 
was  trembling  still  with  the  excitement  of  her  own 
escape;  but  a  new  courage  came  to  her,  and  it 
was  born  of  the  sure  knowledge  that  Brandon 
North  was  there,  and  that  she  was  about  to  hear 
his  voice  again. 

There  was  a  great  throng  of  people  in  the 
narrow  street,  all  gathered  about  the  shop  of  a 
chemist  into  which  a  little  child  had  been  carried 
some  few  minutes  before  she  came  there.  A 
gossip  elbowing  a  road  for  himself  through  the 
press,  told  her  that  a  shell  had  fallen  in  that 
place,  and  that  the  child  had  been  struck  on  the 
arm  by  a  fragment  of  it. 

"  We  shall  have  to  go  to  the  cellars  to- 
morrow," the  man  said  grimly ;  "  they  shoot  the 
little  ones,  these  Prussians ;  they  have  no  hearts, 


She  shrank  back  terrified  into  the  porch. 


The  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel      227 

Mademoiselle.  I  have  children  of  my  own,  and 
I  can  speak  for  the  fathers.  It  is  not  war 
which  covers  a  child's  frock  with  blood.  It  is 
the  slaughter-house  full  of  devils  in  blue  coats. 
Be  advised  of  me  and  return  to  your  house, 
Mademoiselle." 

She  thanked  him  and  asked  boldly  for  the 
house  of  Madame  Clairon.  He  looked  at  her, 
astonished.  Her  fine  clothes,  her  grand  air,  the 
sweet  girlish  face  she  lifted  when  she  asked  the 
question  were  not  to  be  reconciled  with  such  a 
request. 

"  The  house  of  Madame  Clairon ;  but  she  is 
an  aubergtste  —  she  keeps  the  wine  shop  yonder. 
You  cannot  have  business  there,  Mademoiselle." 

His  curiosity  was  now  thoroughly  aroused. 
Everyone  suspected  his  neighbour  in  Strasburg 
at  that  day.  What  had  this  delicate  girl  to  do 
with  Madame  Clairon  and  her  house  ?  Beatrix, 
on  her  part,  found  an  excuse  quickly. 

"  We  have  news  of  one  of  her  relations  in  a 
letter  from  Metz,  Monsieur.  I  did  not  know  that 
it  was  such  a  house.  Of  course,  I  cannot  go 
there." 

She  turned  abruptly  and  disappeared  in  the 
throng.  The  questioning  eyes  of  the  man  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  went.  She  seemed  to  be 
conscious  of  his  searching  gaze  as  though  it 


228       The  Garden  of  Swords 

pursued  her  to  read  her  secret  and  to  betray  it. 
But  she  saw  him  no  more,  and,  as  she  passed 
the  chemist's  house,  they  carried  out  the  child,  a 
wan  little  thing  with  eyes  very  wide  open  and 
bandaged  arm,  and  blood  upon  the  frock.  She 
turned  from  the  place  sick  at  heart.  An  infinite 
pity  for  the  children  drove  the  thought  of  her 
own  troubles  from  her  mind.  That  those  little 
ones  should  suffer  !  The  lights  of  the  wine  shop 
were  dancing  before  her  eyes.  She  saw  the 
child's  face  still  when  she  passed  on  into  the 
darkness  of  the  street. 

The  crowd  dispersed  slowly,  leaving  but  a  few 
idlers  upon  the  pavement.  She  could  not  see 
the  man  who  had  questioned  her,  but  suspicion 
of  him  remained.  Nearly  an  hour  passed  before 
she  returned  to  the  auberge,  and  then  she  had 
no  courage  to  enter  it.  Burly  troopers,  grimed 
with  powder  and  half  drunk,  lolled  everywhere 
about  its  doors.  The  odour  of  dregs  and  of  stale 
tobacco,  wafted  even  to  the  pavements  without, 
made  her  sick  and  faint.  She  passed  the  doors 
again  and  again  until  she  began  to  fear  that 
her  very  presence  was  a  danger  to  the  man 
she  would  have  befriended.  And  he  was  there 
—  in  that  den  of  drink  and  brutality.  She 
knew  that  she  could  not  leave  him  in  such  a 
place. 


The  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel      229 

A  young  girl  came  out  of  the  auberge,  sing- 
ing. Her  arms  were  bare,  her  hair  unkempt ; 
but  she  gave  the  troopers  wit  for  brutality,  and 
there  was  a  smile  upon  her  bright  face  as  she 
ran  from  the  house.  When  she  saw  Beatrix 
standing  there,  as  though  about  to  question  her, 
she  stopped  abruptly  and  uttered  a  startled 
exclamation. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  you,  then!" 

She  turned  and  looked  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  then  continued  quickly  : 

"  He  has  asked  for  you,  oh,  so  many  times 
every  day.  He  is  very  ill,  Mademoiselle,  and 
has  no  friends  in  Strasburg.  If  anyone  knew 
that  he  was  an  Englishman  from  across  the 
Rhine,  he  could  not  stay  here.  But  you  will 
see  him  now.  The  door  is  to  the  right  there, 
the  first  past  the  corner.  I  will  let  you  in 
myself:  I  have  done  what  I  could,  but  these 
others  —  they  keep  me  always  on  my  feet.  It 
is  l  Jeannette  '  here  and  '  Jeannette  '  there,  and 
4  Jeannette  will  do  it' — and,  oh,  Mademoiselle, 
how  tired  I  am  !  " 

She  made  a  gesture  as  of  one  very  weary 
of  her  life,  but  a  moment  afterwards  was  in  the 
cafe  again  with  smiling  face  and  with  ready  words 
for  the  brutes  who  bandied  their  wit  against 
hers.  When  she  opened  the  side  door  to  Beatrix 


230       The  Garden  of  Swords 

she  had  a  candlestick  in  her  hand,  and  she  raised 
her  ringer  warningly. 

"  We  must  have  a  care,  Mademoiselle.  They 
are  not  all  his  friends  as  you  and  I.  And  he 
will  be  so  pleased  !  Ah,  it  is  good  to  be  loved 
when  you  are  ill !  " 

She  did  not  see  the  flush  on  the  other's  face, 
the  flush  of  shame  and  doubt  and  of  denial, 
which  could  not  well  be  spoken  in  that  place. 
Indeed,  she  did  not  wait  for  assent  or  protest, 
but  ran  up  the  stairs  with  a  child's  foot,  and 
opened  the  door  of  a  garret  upon  the  third  floor. 
And  so  the  friends  came  face  to  face  again. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  —  here  is  Mademoiselle  at  last. 
No  more  loneliness  now,  Monsieur ;  no  more 
Jeannette.  We  are  going  to  change  all  that. 
Shall  we  come  in,  Monsieur  ?  " 

A  deep  voice,  clear  and  musical,  replied  to 
them.  Beatrix  entered  the  room  with  hesitating 
step,  and  stood  for  a  little  while,  breathing 
quickly  in  the  close  atmosphere.  That  was  the 
friendship  of  Louis  Gatelet,  then  —  that  den  of 
dirt,  that  hovel  in  the  auberge ;  that  garret  from 
which  even  a  trooper  below  might  have  turned 
scornfully.  The  very  windows  she  saw  were 
broken  and  mended  with  paper.  The  couch  upon 
which  the  wounded  man  lay  was  but  a  bed  of 
rags.  A  single  candle  in  a  dirty  iron  stick  gave 


The  Rue  de  I'Arc-en-Ciel      231 

him  light.  The  flickering  rays  of  it  showed  her 
the  pallor  of  his  face,  the  thin  hands,  the  un- 
shaven chin.  And  he  had  been  there  for  days, 
waiting  for  her  to  come  to  him.  His  friend  had 
left  him  there  in  that  garret  of  the  city,  which 
even  a  beggar  would  have  passed  by.  She 
blamed  herself  that  she  had  delayed  even  for 
an  hour. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Brandon,  what  a  place  !  You 
cannot  stop  here." 

He  pressed  her  hand  lightly,  and  made  an  effort 
to  raise  himself  from  the  couch. 

"  That 's  what  I  've  been  telling  my  leg  every 
day  for  the  last  two  days.  But  it  differs  from 
me.  I  say  c  go  ;  '  the  leg  says  c  stop.'  Who  is  to 
decide  when  the  limbs  disagree  ?  " 

Jeannette  set  down  the  candle  and  sighed. 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  if  you  could  have  seen 
him  when  he  came  here.  That  was  a  dreadful 
day.  I  went  from  the  house  and  found  him 
lying  in  the  road  —  ah,  mon  Dieu,  the  dreadful 
wound,  the  pale  face,  the  blood  upon  the  pave- 
ment !  But  he  will  get  better  now.  You  will 
cure  him,  Mademoiselle.  And  you  will  not  want 
Jeannette  to  help  you.  Oh  —  ah  —  I  know  how 
it  is,  Mademoiselle,  and  I  will  come  back  in 
an  hour." 

She    slipped    from    the    room,    and    closed    the 


232       The  Garden  of  Swords 

door  quietly  behind  her.  The  room  possessed 
but  one  cane-seated  chair,  and  that  but  half  a 
back.  Beatrix  drew  it  to  the  side  of  the  couch, 
while  Brandon  began  to  speak  to  her  about  his 
accident. 

"  I  don't  like  your  coming  here,  and  yet  I  am 
glad  that  you  came,"  he  said,  with  a  look  which 
implied  the  disappointment  he  had  suffered.  "  Of 
course,  you  must  tell  somebody  now,  and  must  not 
come  alone  again.  Old  Helene  will  be  best.  She 
is  a  good  old  soul,  and  may  be  prevailed  upon  to 
hold  her  tongue.  If  only  I  knew  where  Richard 
Watts  was  living,  I  would  ask  you  to  go  to  him. 
He  has  a  better  head  than  most,  and  would  help 
me  out  of  a  tight  place.  It  just  shows  you, 
Beatrix,  what  fools  men  can  be  sometimes. 
Bobbie  Burns  was  right  after  all.  The  best  laid 
schemes  don't  always  hit  it.  There  was  nothing 
I  left  out  of  my  calculations  that  you  could  think 
of.  I  had  even  got  a  safe-conduct  to  help  me 
back  to  German  lines.  And  then,  just  at  the 
crossing  here,  an  artillery  waggon  crushes  my  foot, 
and  down  I  go  like  a  nettle.  Was  there  ever  such 
a  cursed  piece  of  luck  ?  " 

He  sank  back  again  upon  the  pillow  of  rags, 
and  a  spasm  of  pain  drew  down  the  muscles  of 
his  mouth  and  made  him  clench  his  hands.  She 
thought  how  greatly  the  wound  had  changed 


The  Rue  de  1'Arc-en-Ciel      233 

him.  His  coat  hung  limply  upon  his  chest ;  the 
hand  that  he  stretched  out  showed  awkward 
knuckles,  and  skin  drawn  tight ;  his  eyes  were 
very  bright,  as  the  eyes  of  one  who  needed 
sleep.  But  his  manner  was  the  manner  of  the 
old  time.  He  was  angry  with  himself  because 
he  could  not  conceal  from  her  the  fact  that  he 
was  in  pain. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  her  eyes 
fill  with  tears,  and  guessed  how  heavy  was  her 
self-reproach.  "  If  you  would  n't  mind  pouring 
me  out  a  glass  of  that  wine  —  a  hundred  thanks  ; 
you  're  curing  me  already,  you  know.  And,  of 
course,  I  dare  not  send  to  my  old  rooms.  Antoine, 
there,  has  a  tongue  as  long  as  the  Minster  spire. 
He  would  give  me  away  in  five  minutes.  You 
see,  there  's  not  much  chance  of  disguise  now, 
Beatrix.  Gatelet  says  he  got  me  in  here  only 
just  in  time.  One  of  the  curates  of  St.  Thomas's, 
who  knew  me  well,  came  to  the  door  just  as  they 
were  carrying  me  upstairs.  The  fellow  would 
have  put  it  all  over  Strasburg  in  five  minutes. 
It 's  their  business  to  talk,  and  they  don't  neglect 
it.  Gatelet,  on  the  other  hand,  will  hold  his 
tongue  just  as  long  as  it  suits  him.  How  long 
it  will  suit  him  I  really  don't  know.  It 's  a  case 
of  trusting  in  Providence  and  a  fifth-rate  Italian 
quack  he  unearthed  from  somewhere.  Perhaps 


234       The  Garden  of  Swords 

it  will  be  better  now  that  you  have  come.  And 
you  might  find  Richard  Watts,  eh  ?  " 

She  had  been  very  silent  until  that  moment, 
for  pity  and  dismay  checked  her  utterances.  All 
her  impulse  was  to  flee  the  house  and  return  with 
someone  who  would  carry  him  from  that  dreadful 
place.  His  very  life,  she  thought,  depended  upon 
her,  and  upon  her  alone.  She  knew  not  what 
enemies  of  his  watched  this  den.  Even  as  they 
talked,  she  listened  for  any  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  stairs.  The  cries  and  oaths  in  the  wine 
shop  below  brought  back  to  her  that  picture  of 
a  man  fighting  for  his  life  in  the  cathedral  square. 
If  it  should  come  to  that  ?  If  Gatelet  should 
betray  them  ? 

"  Brandon,"  she  said,  ignoring  his  question, 
"  what  did  your  friend  mean  by  leaving  you  in 
this  place  ? " 

He  laughed  satirically. 

"  Oh,  his  magnanimity  —  nothing  else  —  that 's 
what  brought  me  here.  You  could  fill  an  egg- 
cup  with  it.  By-and-by  the  honour  of  France 
will  compel  him  to  win  glory  by  introducing  me 
to  the  gentlemen  below.  They  are  the  fellows 
who  ran  away  from  us  at  Worth.  They  showed 
us  the  soles  of  their  boots,  which  are  made  of 
brown  paper,  I  believe.  Here,  in  Strasburg,  they 
are  the  very  devil.  When  Gatelet  tells  them  that 


The  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel      235 

there  is  a  Prussian  dragoon  in  the  garret,  they 
will  come  up,  three  stairs  at  a  time,  with  sabres 
in  their  hands.  I  fancy  I  hear  them  sometimes 
when  I  try  to  sleep.  It  is  n't  quite  a  cure  for 
insomnia,  and,  yet,  what  can  I  do  ?  There  's  no 
man  in  Strasburg,  except  Richard  Watts,  that  I 
could  trust  —  and,  well,  Watts  may  not  be  in  Stras- 
burg. Besides,  the  place  is  watched.  I  have  seen 
men  in  the  house  opposite,  and  there  is  always 
some  blackguard  at  the  front  door  below.  If  I 
charged  Gatelet  with  it,  he  would  swell  out  with 
indignation.  And,  fancy  owing  anything  to  a  rat 
like  that !  If  only  it  had  been  someone  else  !  Of 
course,  he  told  you  I  was  here." 

"  To-day,"  she  said  absently,  for  her  brain 
was  working  quickly  now ;  "  I  came  straight 
here  from  the  Minster.  He  insulted  me,  Brandon. 
I  cannot  speak  of  it.  I  am  going  now  to  tell 
Helene.  It  would  not  be  right  to  keep  the  secret 
any  longer.  If  Mr.  Watts  is  in  the  city,  he  shall 
know  to-night.  We  cannot  leave  you  one  hour 
longer  in  this  dreadful  place.  Oh,  I  pray  God  that 
I  shall  find  him  !  My  folly  brought  you  here  — 
nothing  else,  nothing  else  !  " 

She  stood  up  and  the  tears  fell  fast  and 
glistened  upon  her  burning  cheeks.  The  man 
thought  that  her  tenderness  for  him  was  the 
sweetest  thing  in  all  the  world  j  his  love  for  her 


236       The  Garden  of  Swords 

surged  up  in  his  heart  as  a  consuming  passion. 
Yet  he  would  sooner  have  cut  off  his  right  hand 
than  that  she  should  have  guessed  the  heavy 
secret  of  his  lonely  life.  The  unbending  honour 
of  a  man  who  had  been  honour's  servant  from 
his  boyhood  answered  her  almost  brusquely. 

"  It  was  not  your  fault  at  all,"  he  said ;  u  you 
don't  drive  artillery  waggons,  my  dear  Beatrix. 
And  I  am  glad  that  you  are  going  to  tell  old 
Helene.  She  is  the  best  woman  alive  when  any- 
one is  down.  Perhaps  she  '11  smuggle  in  some 
soup  or  something.  The  food  here  is  not  exactly 
on  the  restaurant  scale.  But  don't  let  her  trouble 
if  she  can't  do  it  safely  —  and  remember  we  are 
all  going  to  write  to  Edmond  and  to  tell  him 
about  this  business  directly  it 's  possible.  Your 
other  letter  went,  I  need  not  say.  I  smuggled  it 
out  all  right,  and  he  's  on  his  way  home  by  this 
time." 

She  looked  at  him,  half  glad,  half  fearful. 

"  You  sent  the  letter  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  sent  it.  The  girl  here  gave  it 
to  one  of  the  German  gentlemen  who  are  visiting 
Strasburg  just  now  to  take  the  waters  —  and  any- 
thing else  they  can  pick  up.  Edmond  will  give 
his  parole,  although  you  don't  ask  him.  He  '11 
be  back  here  just  as  the  fun  is  beginning.  I 
should  imagine  my  appearance  will  amuse  him. 


The  Rue  de  TArc-en-Ciel      237 

You  must  tell  him  all  about  it ;  that  goes  with- 
out saying.  And  you  won't  return  here  until 
he  is  in  the  Place  Kleber.  I  insist  on  that, 
Beatrix.  If  anyone  is  to  come,  it  must  be 
Watts.  By  Jove,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
his  face,  and  I  don't  think  he  'd  mind  seeing 
mine." 

It  was  the  third  time  he  had  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  old  Bohemian,  and  she  began  to  see 
how  great  he  believed  the  peril  of  his  environ- 
ment to  be.  There,  in  that  wretched  hovel,  with 
the  dim  light  of  a  guttering  candle  playing  upon 
his  haggard  face,  and  strangers  about  him,  and 
the  very  scum  of  France's  soldiers  in  the  tavern 
below,  lamed,  helpless,  alone  —  she  knew  that  his 
life  hung  upon  a  thread  indeed  ;  and  she  gave  him 
of  that  pity  which  ever  she  bestowed  upon  the 
weak  and  suffering. 

"  They  shall  come  and  help  you,  Brandon.  I 
will  go  and  tell  old  Helene.  God  grant  that  we 
shall  not  be  too  late." 

"  Amen  to  that,  Beatrix  —  and  a  thousand 
thanks." 

She  pressed  his  hand  lightly  and  left  the  room, 
groping  her  way  down  the  rotting  stairs  to  the 
light  and  voices  of  the  city  below.  She  told 
herself  that  she  was  going  to  save  the  life  of 
her  friend.  But  the  man  sank  back  upon  his  bed 


238       The  Garden  of  Swords 

of  rags,  and,  seeing  the  vision  of  her  long  after- 
wards, he  thought  that  the  sun  shone  upon  him 
still  j  and  he  forgot  the  place  and  the  hour,  and 
seemed  to  walk  with  her  in  a  house  of  dreams, 
which  he  had  built  in  the  years  gone  by. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

" LA    PAUVRE  " 

THERE  were  eighteen  francs  in  her  purse.  She 
emptied  them  into  Jeannette's  hand  as  she  left  the 
tavern. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,"  she  said;  "do  what 
you  can  for  him.  He  cannot  eat  the  food  here. 
Go  to  the  house  of  Hummel,  the  vintner,  and  buy 
brandy  for  him.  We  shall  send  to-morrow.  If 
you  think  that  we  should  come  sooner,  you  will 
find  me  at  the  house  of  the  Countess  of  Gorsdorf 
in  the  Place  Kleber.  I  am  Madame  Lefort.  You 
may  have  heard  my  name  !  " 

The  girl  raised  her  hands  in  wonder. 

"  Ah,  Madame,  if  I  remember  !  Was  I  not  at 
the  wedding  in  the  Minster?  Ma  fo'i  !  what  silk, 
what  satin  —  and  the  gold  of  the  officers.  Of 
course,  I  shall  be  his  friend.  You  will  sleep  to- 
night and  say,  l  She  is  watching  him.'  I  have 
loved  myself,  Madame  —  even  I,  Jeannette." 

Again  the  scarlet  flush  died  the  pretty  cheeks, 
and  the  heart  of  the  girl  beat  fast. 

"  He  is  my  kinsman,"  she  said  earnestly ;  "  his 
friends  do  not  wish  him  to  be  in  Strasburg.  I 


240       The  Garden  of  Swords 

count  upon  you  to  help  him.  We  shall  not  forget 
your  kindness.  And  my  husband  will  come  here 
himself  when  he  returns  from  Ulm." 

Jeannette  stood  with  eyes  wide  open.  The 
romance  of  her  guest  was  gone,  then.  In  a  sense 
the  truth  was  unpleasant  to  her.  And  yet,  after 
all,  she  had  no  rival  in  the  house.  When  she 
mounted  the  quaking  stairs  again,  she  went 
gladly  and  singing.  The  English  stranger  was 
very  handsome.  He  should  not  want  a  friend 
there. 

Beatrix  left  the  house  quickly,  almost  furtively. 
The  errand  she  had  set  herself  was  an  errand  of 
life  or  death.  The  drunken  troopers  in  the  tavern 
stood  to  her  for  so  many  savage  jailors  of  the 
lonely  man  in  the  garret  above.  The  noises  in 
the  streets  echoed  as  the  cries  of  the  doomed  in 
a  stricken  city.  Strange  lights  flared  in  the  sky. 
She  heard  men  say  that  they  were  lights  of  the 
houses  which  burned  by  the  northern  gates.  The 
low  booming  of  the  artillery  was  incessant.  It 
acted  upon  men's  nerves  as  an  irritant,  moving 
them  to  frenzies  of  rage  and  despair.  By  here 
and  there  the  chink  of  a  cellar  door  showed  her 
whole  families,  accustomed  yesterday  to  the  com- 
mon luxuries  of  life,  now  huddled  together  on  a 
bed  of  straw  for  very  terror  of  the  falling  death. 
Others  were  heaping  up  bags  full  of  clay  before 


"  La  Pauvre"  241 

the  shutters  of  the  shops.  In  the  Broglie  itself  a 
man  ran  to  and  fro  crying  out  to  all  that  they  had 
killed  his  son.  He  took  her  by  the  arm  roughly 
and  would  have  told  her  his  story  ;  but  she  tore 
herself  away  and  heard  the  laughter  of  the  maids 
of  a  great  house,  who  had  watched  the  man  and 
found  amusement  in  his  distress.  Some  way 
further  on,  a  child  played  with  a  paper  lantern 
and  a  little  tin  sword  while  a  company  of  half- 
drunken  artillerymen  drilled  him  incoherently. 
The  men  shouted  after  her  to  come  and  see  the 
new  Governor,  who  was  going  to  open  the  gates 
to  the  Prussians. 

She  passed  them  by  quickly,  and  turned  into 
the  square  by  the  New  Church.  There  were  a 
great  many  soldiers  here,  both  officers  and  pri- 
vates, and  they  stood  to  watch  a  looming  crimson 
cloud  which  quivered  as  with  the  iridescence  of 
tremulous  flame,  and  cast  back  upon  the  houses 
a  golden  wave  of  fantastic  lights  that  showed  her 
even  the  faces  of  the  men  who  were  gathered 
there.  Arrfongst  them  she  distinguished  Gatelet, 
in  his  uniform  of  the  National  Guard.  He  recoe- 

o 

nised  her  at  once,  and  crossed  the  road  to  speak  to 
her.  She  knew  that  she  trembled  as  he  came, 
but  she  answered  him  quite  frankly. 

"  I    was  coming  to   the   Place    Kleber    to    call 
upon  you  to-night,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice ;    "  of 
16 


242       The  Garden  of  Swords 

course,  you  have  been  to  see  him.  They  told  me 
so  when  I  called  just  now." 

She  looked  up  quickly.  The  man  had  followed 
her  from  the  tavern,  then  —  had  watched,  she 
thought,  while  she  was  in  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  she  responded  with  an  effort ;  "  I  went 
there,  Monsieur.  Brandon  was  always  our  friend. 
I  am  under  the  greatest  obligations  to  him,  as  is 
my  husband  —  " 

He  made  a  little  gesture  as  though  the  ex- 
planation was  entirely  supererogatory. 

"  Of  course  you  went.  If  I  had  not  thought 
that  you  would  go,  he  would  not  be  in  the  Rue 
de  PArc-en-Ciel  at  this  moment.  And  you  will 
advise  him  to  be  prudent  —  if  you  are  wise.  They 
tell  me  that  his  German  friends  have  been  there. 
I  am  grieved  to  hear  it,  for,  of  course,  we  must 
not  have  complications.  As  far  as  I  can  be  your 
friend,  I  will  be  so,  Madame  Lefort.  And  you 
will  not  forget  that  I  am  leaving  him  there  for 
your  sake." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  familiarly, 
and  she  could  see  his  little  eyes  twinkling  as 
the  eyes  of  an  animal.  In  one  instant,  the  whole 
truth  stood  revealed  to  her.  This  man  hoped 
to  profit  of  his  insult.  She  had  not  misread  his 
words.  The  gesture,  the  tone  of  voice  were  those 
of  one  who  deemed  that  he  possessed  already  a 


"  La  Pauvre  "  243 

right  indisputable  thus  to  speak  to  her  as  no  one 
else  but  her  husband  might  in  honour  speak.  An 
intense  loathing  of  his  presence  came  upon  her. 
She  wondered  afterwards  that  she  did  not  strike 
him  upon  the  face.  But  she  restrained  herself 
for  her  friend's  sake.  The  keys  of  life  and  death 
were  in  the  hands  of  the  man  whose  fingers 
touched  her  arm,  whose  breath  she  felt  upon  her 
cheek. 

"  I  shall  forget  nothing,  Monsieur,"  she  said 
quietly ;  "  while  you  serve  my  friend  you  serve 
me.  Captain  Lefort  will  tell  you  so  when  he 
returns." 

She  released  herself,  and,  with  a  curt  nod  to 
him,  ran  across  the  square  to  the  Place  Kleber. 
The  new  indignity  sent  her  hurrying  as  a  hurt 
child  to  its  home.  She  had  never  thought  or  argued 
with  such  a  possibility  as  that  which  was  now 
revealed  to  her.  It  was  as  though  her  destiny  had 
plunged  her  into  some  maelstrom  of  shame  and 
darkness,  from  which  she  never  might  emerge 
again.  The  desire  to  tell  someone  was  uncon- 
trollable. She  pictured  to  herself,  as  she  went, 
how  she  would  kneel  at  old  Helene's  side  and 
confess  all,  even  to  her  infidelity  to  the  armies  of 
France,  and  her  belief,  which  was  almost  a  pride, 
in  that  irresistible  might  of  the  Saxon  of  which 
her  friend  Brandon  was  the  type.  Words  of  love 


244       The  Garden  of  Swords 

and  sympathy  and  help  would  reward  her,  she 
was  sure.  That  sweet  face  would  not  be  turned 
from  her ;  that  hand,  which  had  raised  the  lowliest, 
would  dry  up  the  tears  which  had  already  dimmed 
the  eyes  of  Helene's  child.  There  was  a  new 
hope  in  her  heart  when  she  turned  into  the  square, 
and  for  the  first  time  became  aware  of  the  terror 
there.  The  secret  was  done  with.  She  was 
going  to  leave  her  burden  in  a  mother's  keeping. 

She  was  hastening  when  she  entered  the  square ; 
but  she  stopped  abruptly  as  her  own  house  came 
to  view,  and  chains  of  lead  seemed  to  fetter  her 
limbs.  She  had  expected  to  find  the  Place 
Kleber  deserted,  as  usually  it  was  at  such  an  hour ; 
had  thought  to  see  the  brightly-lighted  windows, 
and  a  glimpse  of  her  own  little  boudoir  behind 
them,  and  of  old  Helene  as  she  sat  before  her 
writing-table  in  the  great  drawing-room.  But 
even  before  she  had  crossed  the  road  by  the  New 
Church  she  heard  the  clamorous  voice  as  of  a  great 
throng,  and  beheld  men  running  swiftly,  and  saw 
others  who  cried  for  ladders  and  for  water ;  and, 
going  on  a  little  way,  she  was  caught  up  as  on  a 
human  wave  and  pressed  forward  to  the  scene 
until  she  stood  before  the  very  doors  of  her  home, 
and  learned,  with  a  woman's  instinct,  the  truth 
which  nevermore  she  might  forget.  For  the  great 
house  had  been  struck  by  a  shell,  and  from  its 


"  La  Pauvre  "  245 

upper  windows  flames  were  vomited ;  and  in  that 
very  boudoir,  where  she  had  found  the  sanc- 
tuary of  life,  she  beheld  firemen  with  axes,  and 
soldiers,  who  tore  the  draperies  madly,  and  even 
the  women  servants  of  the  house  wailing  in  their 
terror. 

She  had  been  carried  to  the  scene  swiftly,  and 
moments  went  by  before  she  could  reason  about 
it,  or  even  ask  of  the  people  around  her  for  news 
of  those  within  the  house.  The  little  things  of 
the  instant  occupied  her  and  held  her  voiceless. 
She  saw  that  the  walls  of  the  upper  rooms  had 
fallen  to  the  street,  leaving  strange  wreckage  in 
their  path.  A  bed  hung  sideways,  wedged  between 
the  shattered  rafters ;  a  cabinet  in  one  of  the. 
rooms  was  smashed  to  atoms,  but  a  bracket,  with 
a  vase  upon  it,  was  untouched,  at  the  very  side  of 
the  cabinet.  In  her  own  boudoir  the  plaster  had 
fallen,  leaving  the  rafters  bare  and  splintered.  She 
saw  a  man  throw  water  from  a  bucket  against  the 
hangings  of  the  alcove,  and  she  had  the  impulse  to 
run  in  and  stay  his  hand.  But  while  her  eyes  sur- 
veyed the  whole  scene  swiftly,  she  became  aware 
that  the  lower  floors  of  the  house  were  in  darkness 

—  and   then,   as -in    an   overwhelming    instant    of 
self-reproach,  she  thought  of  Helene. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  Monsieur,  what  has  happened 

—  what  are  they  doing  in  the  house  ?  " 


246       The  Garden  of  Swords 

She  forced  her  way  now  through  the  people, 
struggling  as  if  for  life  itself.  A  sergent  de  ville, 
hearing  her  voice,  began  to  answer  her  brusquely  ; 
but  when  he  saw  her  face  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  her,  and  thrust  the  people  back. 

"  It  is  Madame  Helene's  daughter,"  he  said, 
and  they  made  way  for  her,  with  words  of  sym- 
pathy uttered  in  low  voices. 

"  There  has  been  an  accident,  Madame  —  those 
cursed  Prussians,  they  have  destroyed  your  house. 
I  would  not  go  if  I  were  you.  There  is  Monsieur 
the  Cure,  he  will  tell  you." 

One  of  the  ministers  of  the  Lutheran  Church 
of  St.  Thomas  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  re- 
cognised her. 

"  My  poor  child  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  they  have 
told  you." 

"  I  know  nothing,"  she  cried  wildly  ;  "  take  me 
to  Helene !  Let  me  go  to  her  !  " 

He  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  tried  to 
hold  her  back. 

"  You  must  not  go,"  he  said  ;  "  if  you  will  wait 
a  moment  — " 

A  vague  consciousness  of  the  whole  truth 
suddenly  came  to  her. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Helene  is  dead  !  "  she  cried. 

He  did  not  answer  her.  She  read  assent  in  his 
averted  face.  The  sound  of  voices  magnified  in 


"  La  Pauvre  "  247 

her  ears.  She  saw  the  troubled  faces,  the  shattered 
rooms,  the  looming  crimson  cloud  above.  They 
merged  into  a  misty  whirling  scene,  and  so  to 
darkness. 

"  La  pauvre"  said  one  of  those  who  looked  on  ; 
"  she  is  alone  in  the  city  now." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE    NIGHT    OF    TRUCE 

HELENE  of  Strasburg  was  dead,  the  Mother  of  the 
City,  the  queenly  woman  who  had  helped  the  city 
so  often  to  courage  and  self-sacrifice.  Though 
Strasburg  suffered  then,  though  her  people  lived  no 
longer  in  the  light  of  day  but  burrowed  to  the 
cellars  and  the  vaults  where  no  Prussian  shells 
could  harm  them,  they  came  forth  as  a  great  army 
of  the  children  of  night  into  the  sunshine  which 
hovered  about  the  open  grave.  For  they  had 
loved  the  mistress  of  the  house  of  Gorsdorf,  and  to 
many  of  them  she  was  as  one  of  their  own,  ever 
to  be  held  in  the  high  place  of  memory  where  all 
that  has  made  for  the  sweetness  and  the  truth  of 
life  should  be  stored  up. 

Helene  was  dead.  The  news  went  quickly  as 
tidings  of  the  ultimate  misfortune.  The  soldiers 
on  the  ramparts  heard  it,  and  told  each  other 
that  the  day  of  the  cataclysm  was  at  hand.  The 
brave  men  of  the  city  took  a  new  resolution  of 
endurance.  "We  shall  avenge  the  shell  that 
struck  down  her  house,"  they  said.  In  the 
churches  the  priests  spoke  of  Christian  love  and  of 


The  Night  of  Truce         249 

the  divine  truth  that  in  motherhood  all  love  is 
born.  When  the  body  was  at  length  carried  forth 
and  the  drums  rolled  and  the  bells  tolled,  it  was  as 
though  the  whole  city  came  out  for  that  cortege. 
Even  the  children  cast  flowers  upon  the  path. 
The  Governor  himself,  the  dauntless  Uhrich  whose 
name  was  honoured  then  almost  above  any  name 
in  France,  was  first  at  the  graveside  and  last  to 
leave  the  stricken  house  when  the  people  had  gone 
to  the  darkness  again. 

"  You  must  not  stay  here  an  hour,  my  child," 
he  said  to  Beatrix ;  "  my  house  is  open  to  you ; 
you  must  be  my  guest.  I  am  afraid  that  it  is 
only  the  beginning.  Their  guns  are  reaching 
this  quarter  every  day,  and  it  is  not  safe  even  in 
your  cellars.  Besides,  you  are  alone  —  " 

She  thanked  him,  but  would  not  go. 

"  Helene  would  have  wished  it,"  she  said.  "  I 
cannot  leave  her  work  to  others.  If  she  had 
lived,  we  should  have  stayed  here  until  the  end. 
And  Edmond  will  expect  to  find  me  here  when 
he  returns.  I  could  not  play  a  coward's  part, 
General." 

Her  resolution  pleased  him.  Day  by  day  it 
was  his  duty  to  teach  the  men  of  Strasburg  the 
meaning:  of  their  debt  to  France.  Here  was  a 

o 

little  English  girl  who  needed  no  lesson. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  if  the  others  would  talk  like 


250       The  Garden  of  Swords 

that  !  I  shall  tell  your  story  at  the  Council  to- 
day. Madame  Lefort  remains  in  the  Place  Kleber! 
They  will  be  ashamed,  my  child,  and  you — you 
will  not  do  anything  foolish.  I  will  send  some 
men  up  to  make  your  house  safe.  After  all,  we 
are  becoming  night  birds  now.  And  there  is  no 
Madame  Helene  to  tell  us  our  duty.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  doing  wrong,  Madame,  but  if  you 
wish  it  —  " 

u  Helene  would  have  wished  it,"  she  repeated  ; 
"  how  could  I  meet  my  husband  when  he  comes 
back  if  I  were  faithless  to  her  memory  ?  And  I 
shall  be  less  alone  here,  General,  than  in  another 
house.  If  it  is  possible  for  the  dead  to  counsel 
us,  Helene  will  help  me  still.  I  seem  to  hear  her 
voice  always  in  my  sleep.  I  know  that  she  hears 
me  when  I  speak  to  her !  " 

He  shook  his  head.  The  philosophy  of  life  was 
of  less  concern  to  him  than  the  facts  of  life. 

"  I  will  not  gainsay  Helene' s  wish,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  but  it  will  be  a  life  in  the  cellars,  my 
child.  Don't  forget  that.  If  we  are  to  save  Stras- 
burg,  all  must  suffer,  even  the  women." 

"  Do  the  women  complain,  then,  General  ?  " 

"  Complain  —  God  send  that  the  men  show 
half  their  courage  !  " 

"  Then  do  not  let  me  be  the  exception  to  your 
rule.  If  Edmond  should  come  back  —  " 


The  Night  of  Truce         251 

He  laughed  doubtingly. 

"  He  will  never  give  his  parole,  Madame,  even 
for  the  sake  of  the  bravest  heart  in  Strasburg. 
And  you  would  not  wish  it.  It  is  a  dishonour. 
There  have  been  too  many  victims  of  that  shame 
already.  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand  before 
setting  my  name  to  such  a  promise  as  that.  When 
your  husband  comes  back,  the  war  will  be  over 
and  the  Prussians  across  the  Rhine.  You  help  me 
to  that  day  by  remaining  at  the  Place  Kleber." 

He  left  her  with  the  promise,  alone  in  the 
great  house  with  the  shattered  rooms  and  the 
bulging  walls  and  the  roof  of  tarpaulin  which 
builders  had  dared  to  carry  for  old  Helene's  sake. 
In  the  streets  about  her  the  crash  of  bursting  shell 
and  falling  building  ceased  not  by  night  or  day. 
Even  from  the  great  deserted  rooms  through  which 
she  passed  as  a  figure  of  solitude,  she  could  see 
the  debris  of  ruined  houses  and  forgotten  homes. 
But  the  city's  distress  was  not  her  distress.  For 
her  own  life  she  had  ceased  to  care.  The  lonely 
man  in  the  tavern  of  the  troopers  was  always  in 
her  thoughts.  Her  secret  had  become  a  burden 

O 

intolerable.  When,  on  that  night  of  terror,  she 
ran  from  them  into  the  burning  house  and  knelt 
at  the  side  of  her  whose  voice  she  nevermore 
would  hear,  the  prayer  on  her  lips  was  a  prayer 
of  that  confession  she  had  wished  so  ardently  to 


252       The  Garden  of  Swords 

make.  There  was  no  other  in  all  the  city  to 
whom  she  could  go  and  say  —  Help  me  to  save 
my  friend.  It  was  left  to  her  to  give  Brandon  life 
or  death.  Her  own  folly  and  thoughtlessness  had 
brought  this  as  her  recompense. 

She  was  alone  in  the  great  house,  alone  with 
her  secret.  Few  came  to  her,  for  there  was  peril 
to  life  in  the  streets,  and  ever  arose  that  deafening 
music  of  the  guns,  that  thunder  of  tumultuous 
sounds  which  spoke  of  a  city  crumbling  to  the 
dust,  of  a  people  living  below  the  ground,  of 
flames  leaping  to  the  crimson  heavens,  of  passion 
and  death  and  a  nation's  despair.  There  was 
scarce  another  voice  that  she  heard  save  the  voice 
of  Guillaumette,  who  trembled  in  the  cellars  and 
shrieked  aloud  as  the  shells  fell  with  a  great  flame 
of  light  and  the  homes  of  the  children  for  their 
victory.  Her  friends  —  they  had  all  found  shelter 
of  the  darkness  and  the  earth,  or  had  fled  Stras- 
burg  to  give  the  story  to  the  valleys  and  the  lakes 
of  Switzerland.  None  whose  business  was  not  of 
the  city's  safety  ventured  then  to  look  upon  the 
sun  or  even  to  tell  the  stars  in  the  quivering  sky. 
Troopers  alone  passed  her  when  she  ventured  from 
the  lonely  house.  Yet  venture  she  must,  for  the 
dead  seemed  to  walk  the  empty  rooms ;  and  often 
in  the  silence  she  heard  her  friend's  voice  re- 
proaching her. 


The  Night  of  Truce         253 

Seven  days  had  passed  now  since  she  had  seen 
Brandon,  or  heard  the  news  of  him.  The  death  of 
Helene  (of  heart  disease,  the  doctors  said,  and 
charged  it  to  the  devastation  of  the  house)  had 
forbidden  all  thought  of  her  errand  of  mercy  and 
of  friendship.  She  had  desired  so  greatly  to  con- 
fess her  friend's  peril,  and  to  send  a  message  of 
hope  to  the  house ;  but  this  new  blow  stunned 
her  mentally  and  physically.  She  knew  not  even 
whether  Brandon  were  in  the  city  or  no.  She 
thought  sometimes  that  his  presence  must  have 
been  discovered ;  and  she  would  see  him,  in  her 
troubled  sleep,  as  she  had  seen  that  other  in  the 
cafe  by  the  Minster.  The  suspense  was  an 
agony  almost  insupportable.  She  prayed  every 
day  that  Edmond  would  come  back ;  and  yet  she 
judged  instinctively  that  he  would  never  come 
until  the  end.  When  the  General  confirmed  her 
view  she  was  glad  to  hear  him.  Edmond  might 
judge  her  afterwards  for  that  which  she  had  done 
of  her  own  free  will.  She  remembered  that  she 
had  not  asked  him  to  give  his  parole,  and  therein 
found  content. 

There  was  a  great  sortie  from  the  city  on  the 
morning  of  the  ist  of  September,  and  all  day  she 
heard  the  booming  artillery,  and  the  moan  of  the 
shells  as  they  hurtled  above  the  now  doomed 
northern  quarter.  Towards  noon  the  stragglers 


254       The  Garden  of  Swords 

came  in,  and  told  of  many  dead  at  Kronburg 
and  Konigshofen.  She  saw  the  waggons  of  the 
ambulance  passing  through  the  square  to  the 
military  hospital,  and  anon  the  Abbe  Colot  came 
to  tell  her  that  there  was  to  be  a  short  truce 
while  the  burial  parties  went  out.  Soon  the 
news  of  the  truce  went  abroad  as  tidings  of  day, 
and  men  and  women  crept  from  the  cellars  and 
came  gladly  into  the  sunlight ;  and  even  the 
cafes  were  filled,  and  the  accustomed  movement 
of  a  city  was  to  be  observed  again.  She  watched 
the  people  for  a  little  while,  and  then  put  on  her 
hat  and  cloak  and  went  some  way  towards  the 
Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel.  She  must  know  the  truth, 
she  thought;  must  know  if  Brandon  were  still  in 
Strasburg. 

Dusk  had  come  down  when  she  entered  the 
street.  Hordes  of  ragged  soldiers  told  the  story 
of  the  unsuccessful  sortie  of  the  morning.  Every 
alley  had  its  philosopher.  Some  cursed  the  General 
for  the  city's  tribulations.  Others  said  that  F ranee 
was  justified  of  her  army  ;  that  further  resistance 
was  a  crime  against  the  army.  All  were  too 
excited  by  their  own  needs  and  creeds  to  observe 
her  as  she  stood  at  the  corner  and  looked  up  at 
the  window  behind  which  she  hoped  to  see  her 
friend's  face.  But  there  was  no  light  or  sign 
there  ;  the  house  had  no  message  for  her. 


The  Night  of  Truce         255 

An  hour  passed  all  too  slowly.  She  returned 
to  her  watching  place  to  find  the  auberge  again 
in  darkness.  Anticipations  of  the  worst  troubled 
her.  She  remembered  how  curtly  she  had  left 
the  man  Gatelet,  when  last  he  met  her  by  the 
New  Church.  If  he  had  told  them  !  But,  after 
all,  Brandon  might  have  escaped.  His  German 
friends  might  have  helped  him  to  cross  the  river 
and  regain  his  own  lines.  She  was  just  telling 
herself  that  this  was  possible  when  the  girl  Jean- 
nette  came  out  of  the  house,  and,  observing  her, 
crossed  the  road  with  furtive  steps. 

"  Ah,  Madame,  it  is  you,  then.  And  he  has 
waited  so.  Every  day,  every  hour,  he  has  asked 
for  you  !  You  cannot  be  his  friend,  Madame,  to 
leave  him  there  —  " 

"  He  is  still  in  your  house,  then,  Jeannette  ? " 

"  If  he  is  in  the  house,  Madame  !  Listen  : 
there  have  been  many  to  ask  for  him,  but  I 

have   told    none.      He  has    enemies  in  Strasburg. 

o 

They  watch  us  often  from  the  windows  la-kaut. 
He  does  not  light  his  lamp,  because  they  can  see 
him  at  the  blind.  It  is  darkness,  always,  always. 
And  I  have  spent  the  money.  Every  franc,  and 
for  myself  not  a  sou,  Madame.  He  will  tell  you 
so  when  you  go  up.  Ah,  if  he  were  my  friend, 
the  steps  would  not  be  many.  You  are  going  up, 
Madame  ?  " 


256       The  Garden  of  Swords 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated ;  but  the  thought 
of  the  lonely  man  up  there  in  the  darkness  pre- 
vailed above  the  last  argument  of  prudence. 

"  I  am  going  up,  Jeannette,"  she  said. 

The  girl  took  her  hand,  as  though  to  lead  her 
to  the  house.  She  pressed  it  in  her  own  fingers, 
so  thin  and  cold. 

"  Ah,  Madame,  you  have  a  brave  heart.  Wait 
until  I  light  the  candle.  And  we  will  not  mind 
those  others  to-night.  Oh,  how  glad  he  will  be, 
Madame  !  " 

Together  they  climbed  the  tortuous  dirty  stair- 
case and  stood  at  the  broken  door.  Some  instants 
passed  before  their  knock  was  answered,  and  when 
they  entered,  the  prisoner  started  up  as  though 
from  a  fitful  sleep.  There  was  the  pallor  of  death 
upon  his  face,  but  he  smiled  as  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said ;  "  I  thought  that  I  told  you 
not  to  come." 

"  You  knew  that  I  must  come,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  Helene  is  dead,  or  I  should  have  been 
here  before.  A  shell  struck  our  house  ;  she  died 
of  fright  and  grief." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  My  poor  child  !  "  he  said. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  little  while,  until 
Jeannette  had  covered  the  windows  with  a  heavy 


The  Night  of  Truce         257 

cloth,  which  shut  out  the  memory  of  those  who 
watched  the  house.  Beatrix  was  the  first  to 
speak,  and  her  words  came  quickly,  as  the  words 
of  one  who  had  no  time  to  lose. 

"You  know  that  they  are  watching  you  here, 
Brandon  ? " 

"  I  have  known  it  from  the  first." 

"And  you  must  find  some  other  house." 

He  answered  with  an  assumed  indifference. 
"  My  foot  says  no,  and  my  landlady  agrees.  Why 
do  you  think  of  me  when  you  have  troubles  of 
your  own,  Beatrix  ?  " 

"  Because  I  must.  You  cannot  stay  here, 
Brandon.  I  had  hoped  that  Edmond  would 
come  back,  but  I  know  that  he  will  not  come. 
What  he  would  have  done  for  you  I  must  do. 
If  there  is  any  friend  of  yours  in  Strasburg,  he 
must  help  you.  There  can  be  no  secrets  now. 
Your  life  may  depend  upon  to-morrow." 

He  listened  to  her  eagerly. 

"Antoine,  my  clerk,"  he  explained,  "has  become 
a  franc-tireur.  If  I  sent  to  him  for  money,  he 
would  shoot  me.  Mardon,  the  banker,  would  go 
straight  to  the  citadel  with  my  story  if  I  told  him. 
You  know  what  the  others  are,  men  in  blue  coats 
mostly,  who  prate  about  the  honour  of  the  army, 
and  have  no  honour  to  spare  for  their  friends.  If 
money  were  to  be  had,  that  would  make  one  diffi- 
17 


258      The  Garden  of  Swords 

culty  the  less.  It 's  no  good  mincing  matters, 
Beatrix.  I  have  n't  a  shilling  to  my  name.  The 
old  woman  here  will  turn  me  out  into  the  street, 
bag  and  baggage,  to-morrow,  if  I  don't  pay.  Of 
course,  Gatelet  knows  that.  He  whines  about 
friendship,  and  will  come  and  remind  you  of 
that  friendship  when  his  fellows  below  have  cut 
my  throat.  He  knows  that  I  have  no  money, 
and  that  is  his  trump  card.  If  only  old  Watts 
could  be  found,  the  game  would  go  well  enough. 
But  I  don't  think  you  '11  find  him  now.  If 
your  friendship  for  me  prompts  you  to  settle 
with  that  hag  downstairs,  that  will  be  a  real 
service,  and  I  can  settle  with  Edmond  when 
he  comes  in.  Meanwhile,  there  is  no  time 
to  lose." 

He  sank  back  on  his  couch  exhausted.  She 
saw  that  there  was  not  even  water  upon  the  table, 
and  she  sent  Jeannette  hurrying  for  wine  and 
brandy.  His  words  had  been  an  inspiration  to 
her.  If  money  could  save  him,  her  task  was 
indeed  a  light  one. 

"  Why  did  you  not  ask  me  before  ?  "  she  said. 
"  You  know  that  I  have  never  wanted  money. 
Of  course,  we  will  pay  the  woman  at  once.  It 
has  been  such  a  dreadful  week,  Brandon ;  even 
death  does  not  seem  the  sorrow  it  should  be  when 
there  are  so  many  terrible  things  happening  every 


The  Night  of  Truce         259 

day.  While  you  are  here  I  shall  know  no  rest. 
If  you  could  find  one  friend  —  " 

"  There  are  many,  Beatrix,  but  they  don't  come 
to  Strasburg  to  see  me.  Their  business  is  of 
another  kind.  I  would  not  let  you  enter  this 
room  if  I  were  on  that  errand.  You  know  why 
I  ventured  in,  and  you  may  tell  Edmond  when  he 
returns." 

"  I  pray  God  that  he  will  understand,"  she  said 
gently. 

He  turned  his  face  away.  When  she  left  him, 
ten  minutes  later,  she  said  that  she  would  not  rest 
night  or  day  until  she  found  someone  to  befriend 
him.  But  he  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow  of  rags, 
and  alone  and  in  the  darkness  he  thought  that 
none  had  come  between  them ;  and  he  seemed  to 
hold  her  in  his  strong  arms  and  to  tell  her  that  his 
life  was  nothing  to  him,  because  he  might  not 
speak  of  his  surpassing  love  for  her. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

AN    ULTIMATUM 

SHE  slept  but  fitfully  that  night,  nor  did  she  take 
any  thought  of  rest.  The  new  silence  which  had 
fallen  upon  the  city  in  the  hour  of  truce  was  for 
her  an  armistice  of  the  mind.  No  longer  might 
she  hope  for  help  or  consolation  from  another. 
Brandon's  life  was  in  her  keeping.  Her  own 
friendship  for  him  was  not  to  be  analysed  or 
weighed  up  at  such  a  time.  She  must  save  him, 
she  said,  and  dawn  must  lead  her  to  the  task. 

It  was  strangely  silent  in  the  city,  and  heavy 
black  clouds  loomed  where  the  crimson  pall  had 
been.  She  heard  the  rain  pattering  upon  the 
boards  which  defended  the  windows  of  the  house ; 
and  ever  and  anon  a  distant  bugle  reminded  her  of 
those  who  watched  in  the  fields  of  the  unburied 
dead.  But  sleep  was  far  from  her  eyes.  Pacing 
that  lonely  room,  her  thoughts  were  not  for 
Strasburg  or  those  who  suffered  there.  Some- 
times she  would  recall  those  happy  hours  in  the 
Niederwald  when  Edmond  had  held  her  in  his 
arms  and  they  had  known  the  sweetest  first-fruits 
of  love  unquestioning.  How  long  ago  that  day 


An  Ultimatum  261 

seemed  !  Yet  she  could  kneel  still  at  her  bedside 
and  witness  before  God  the  truth  and  fidelity  of 
the  love  she  had  given.  A  great  longing  to  be 
taken  back  to  her  husband's  arms  was  the  supreme 
thought  of  her  night.  She  loved  him  so  faithfully. 
He  would  never  fail  to  understand  her.  If  only 
he  were  in  Strasburg,  they  would  go  to  the  Rue  de 
l'Arc-en-Ciel  together,  and  there  would  be  no  more 
peril  for  her  friend.  She  was  sure  that  she  owed 
all  she  had  done  to  her  friendship  for  a  fellow- 
countryman  who  had  risked  his  life  that  she  might 
have  news  of  Edmond's  safety.  She  could  not 
conceive  the  ingratitude  which  would  leave  her 
friend  to  the  death  of  the  streets,  the  death  which 
she  had  witnessed  in  the  cafe  of  the  Minster. 

The  passionate  desire  for  Edmond's  return 
was,  indeed,  ever  joined  to  that  ceaseless  thought 
for  Brandon's  safety.  The  terrible  week,  which 
had  struck  down  the  one  being  in  Strasburg  at 
whose  side  she  might  have  knelt  to  tell  her 
strange  story,  had  made  of  her,  she  remembered, 
a  rich  woman  almost  beyond  her  knowledge. 
That  was  no  day  for  the  thought  of  bequests 
and  wealth ;  yet  even  during  the  stress  and 
distraction  of  siege,  old  Dolomot,  the  advocate, 
had  come  to  speak  of  her  inheritance,  and  had 
dwelt  upon  the  new  position  she  soon  must  take 
in  the  city.  She  had  not  reflected  upon  the 


262       The  Garden  of  Swords 

power  of  money  before  that  day,  but  now  a  great 
idea  came  to  her — the  idea  of  a  woman  who  sees 
no  side-issues  but  rejoices  already  in  a  scheme 
new-made.  She  would  purchase  Brandon's  life, 
she  resolved.  She  cared  not  what  price,  she  must 
pay.  The  men  who  lurked  about  the  tavern  — 
their  lips  should  be  sealed.  She  would  buy 
silence  and  help  —  even  from  Gatelet,  who  was  as 
poor  as  any  captain  of  National  Guards  might 
be.  And  to  that  end  she  must  have  money. 
Old  Dolomot  would  find  it  for  her,  and  she 
would  go  to  his  house  when  day  came.  The 
morrow  must  send  messengers  to  every  quarter  of 
the  city  for  Richard  Watts.  Hope  had  saved 
Brandon  already.  She  slept  at  dawn  with  hope 
for  her  dreams. 

The  truce  of  night  was  over  when  she  quitted 
her  house  very  early  in  the  morning  and  set  out 
to  find  Maitre  Dolomot.  She  could  hear  the 
guns  booming  again,  and  often  a  terrible  sound 
of  buildings  falling,  so  that  the  very  ground 
quaked  beneath  her  feet  and  the  whole  city 
quivered  with  the  impact.  The  fresh  breezes 
of  the  day  came  to  her  choked  with  dust  and 
sour  with  the  acrid  odours  of  gunpowder.  She 
could  see  the  smoke  of  fires  against  which  the 
summer  rain  had  warred  in  vain.  Few  civilians 
trod  the  streets  of  the  northern  suburbs,  nor 


An  Ultimatum  263 

was  there  any  sign  of  life  except  in  the  churches, 
towards  which  women  turned  tremblingly,  as 
though  the  houses  of  God  might  defy  the  terror. 
At  intervals  some  scene  of  surpassing  desolation 
compelled  her  to  remember  the  German  oath 
that  not  one  stone  of  Strasburg  should  stand  upon 
another.  She  beheld  acres  of  rubbish  and  dust 
which  yesterday  had  been  mansions  of  renown. 
Vast  ruins  vomited  flame  and  smoke  as  though 
funnels  of  the  very  pit  of  hell.  Ambulances 
passed  her  only  to  give  visions  of  stricken  faces 
and  bloody  clothes. 

From  this  place  of  death  and  darkness  she 
passed  quickly  to  the  safer  streets  and  the 
southern  arrondissement.  There  were  people 
abroad  here  —  timorous  men  who  denounced  the 
folly  of  the  siege  and  cursed  the  name  of  Uhrich 
the  brave  ;  women,  who  spoke  of  their  troubles 
and  their  hunger ;  little  children,  playing  in  the 
gutter,  oblivious  of  the  peril  hurtling  above 
them.  One  poor  creature,  driven  from  her  home 
by  a  shell,  ran  to  and  fro  distractedly  with  her 
babe  in  her  arms.  She  called  God  to  witness 
that  the  babe  was  dead ;  but  the  onlookers 
laughed  at  her,  for  they  could  hear  the  little 
one's  voice,  and  for  the  frenzy  of  fear  they  had 
no  pity.  Such  gunners  and  mobiles  as  walked 
the  streets  were  begging  drink-money  of  the 


264       The  Garden  of  Swords 

people.  Beatrix  sought  to  pass  through  them 
unobserved  ;  but  they  swarmed  about  her  threat- 
eningly, and  when  she  threw  down  her  purse 
they  fought  for  it,  with  savage  cries  and  bayonets 
drawn.  She  could  still  hear  their  voices  when 
she  turned  into  the  Rue  St.  Thomas  and  rang 
at  Maitre  Dolomot's  door. 

Twice  she  rang  at  the  great  brass  bell,  but 
no  one  answered  her.  A  lad,  playing  in  the 
street  before  the  solicitor's  door,  told  her  there 
was  no  one  in  the  house.  She  rang  a  third 
time,  and  knocked  loudly  and  repeatedly.  Slow 
to  believe  that  fortune  had  played  her  this  new 
trick,  she  lingered  about  the  place,  gazing  up 
at  gloomy  blinds  and  the  smokeless  chimneys. 
Her  great  idea  ebbed  away  while  she  waited. 
In  a  sudden  rush  of  fear,  she  remembered  that 
Brandon  must  settle  with  the  woman  to-night. 
And  she  must  have  money.  His  life  was  the 
price  of  defeat. 

Again  and  again  she  repeated  the  truth,  as 
quick  steps  carried  her  back  to  the  Place  Kleber 
and  to  her  house.  Child-like,  she  began  to  say 
that  surely  there  was  one  man  in  Strasburg  who 
would  take  pity  upon  her.  The  Abbe  Colot,  she 
knew,  was  her  friend.  She  would  go  to  him  now, 
on  the  instant,  and  tell  him  her  story.  He  would 
help  her.  He  was  a  priest  and  would  keep  her 


An  Ultimatum  265 

secret.  She  remembered  that  his  house  was  not 
a  stone's  throw  from  that  very  church  of  St. 
Thomas  whose  roof  she  could  see  above  the  build- 
ings. Thither  she  turned  with  new  hope,  but 
had  gone  but  a  little  way  upon  her  errand  when 
a  hand  was  laid  lightly  upon  her  shoulder,  and, 
hesitating,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the 
last  man  in  all  Strasburg  she  would  have  wished 
to  meet.  For  Gatelet  stood  before  her;  and  there 
was  that  on  his  face  which  betrayed  a  knowledge 
of  her  errand. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  curtly,  "  you  are  surprised, 
Madame." 

"  And  why,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Because  of  many  things.  Maitre  Dolomot, 
for  instance,  has  gone  to  Geneva." 

"  Is  not  that  my  business  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  the  business  of  those  who 
safeguard  the  honour  of  the  city,  Madame.  We 
must  have  a  little  talk,  you  and  I.  Let  us  sit  at 
the  cafe,  here.  There  is  too  much  noise  in  Stras- 
burg to  fear  eavesdroppers.  And  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  very  much,  little  Beatrix  —  " 

She  turned  on  him,  flushing  at  his  unabashed 
familiarity. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  said. 

He  ignored  her  anger,  and  stalked  into  the 
cafe,  setting  a  chair  for  her  at  one  of  the  little 


266       The  Garden  of  Swords 

marble  tables.  A  waiter  came  up  and  asked  for 
orders. 

"  Let  me  prescribe  a  glass  of  brandy.  You  are 
not  well  this  morning,  Madame." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  sat  down,  pulling 
excitedly  at  her  glove.  She  knew  that  she  must 
listen  to  this  man.  He,  in  turn,  gauged  exactly 
the  measure  of  his  power  over  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  do  not  be  angry  with  me. 
We  are  friends  together,  in  a  good  cause.  If  I 
were  not  your  friend,  I  should  not  be  here  this 
morning.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  be  in  the 
Rue  —  but  no  names,  my  dear,  they  are  not  neces- 
sary—  let  us  say  that  I  should  be  telling  my  friends 
to  go  and  see  the  young  man  whose  foot  was 
crushed  by  an  artillery  waggon.  You  would  not 
like  that  —  eh  ?  Well,  be  reasonable,  then,  and 
listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

A  murmur  of  assent  escaped  her  lips.  The 
pallor  of  death  was  on  her  face.  The  ungloved 
hands  showed  blue  veins  outstanding  as  upon  a 
hand  of  clay. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Monsieur?"  she 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

He  bent  over  the  table,  and  whispered  the  words 
in  her  ear. 

"  To  be  my  friend,  little  Beatrix." 

She  rose  from  the  table. 


"  The  Frenchman  .    .    .    reeled  back  across  the  table. 


An  Ultimatum  267 

"  You  are  a  coward,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  no  cowardice  in  love.  Do  not 
agitate  yourself,  my  dear.  I  will  give  you  time 
to  think  it  over.  You  shall  tell  me  to-night. 
To-day  they  want  me  at  the  barracks ;  but  I  am 
coming  back  by-and-by,  and  if  you  do  not  wish  to 
be  my  friend,  we  shall  go  to  the  Rue  —  ah,  no 
names,  Madame,  no  names  yet  — " 

He  rose  also,  for  he  thought  that  she  was  about 
to  faint.  The  touch  of  his  hand  seemed  to  burn 
her  wrist.  She  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  strove  to 
release  herself. 

"  Do  not  make  a  scene,  Madame ;  and  remember, 
I  must  have  your  answer  to-night." 

She  had  no  voice  to  respond ;  but  another,  a 
man  who  crossed  the  road  quickly  when  he  heard 
her  cry,  answered  for  her. 

"  Take  that,  and  be  damned  to  you,"  he  said. 

The  Frenchman,  struck  heavily  upon  the  face, 
reeled  back  across  the  table.  But  Beatrix  fell 
sobbing  into  into  the  arms  of  Richard  Watts. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

CONFESSION 

THE  arm  which  now  held  her  was  an  arm  of  iron. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  great  hubbub  going  on 
about  her :  of  angry  voices  and  hurrying  feet,  and 
a  gabble  of  words  which  deafened  her.  Once  she 
saw  Gatelet,  held  back  by  strong  hands ;  she 
heard  Richard  Watts  telling  those  who  came  up 
to  the  cafe  that  the  daughter  of  Madame  Helene 
had  been  insulted  in  the  place.  But  of  the  rest 
she  remembered  little,  except  that  the  same  strong 
arm  led  her  quickly  from  the  scene,  and  that  she 
passed  through  narrow  streets,  unfamiliar  to  her, 
and  was  taken  at  length  into  some  house,  and 
into  a  little  sitting-room  there.  When  she  asked 
where  she  was,  an  English  voice  answered  her, 
and  an  English  hand  held  a  glass  of  wine  to  her 
lips. 

"  In  the  house  of  those  that  will  take  care  of 
you,  my  dear  —  and,  not  a  word  until  you  have 
drunk  every  drop ;  not  a  word,  lady." 

She  obeyed  willingly,  and  looked  up  to  see  a 
kindly  old  dame,  in  a  white  cotton  dress,  spotlessly 
clean,  and  wearing  a  bonnet  which  recalled  the 


Confession  269 

lanes  of  England.  Richard  Watts  himself,  stand- 
ing at  the  dame's  side,  watched  her  approvingly. 
Everything  in  that  light  and  airy  room  was  Eng- 
lish—  the  substantial  buffet,  the  guns  on  the  walls, 
the  pictures  of  hunting  scenes,  the  great  flagons  of 
silver.  But  the  gentle  face  of  the  woman  was  the 
most  typical  English  thing  of  all. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me  ! "  Beatrix  said, 
again  and  again ;  "  how  good  it  is  to  hear  an 
English  voice  !  " 

Old  Richard  Watts  cried  "  Bravo  !  " 

u  English  voices,  English  hands  —  that  's  it, 
young  lady.  Stand  by  that  and  you  '11  never  come 
to  any  harm.  Eh,  Anne  Brown,  is  the  little  pas- 
senger to  stand  by  that  ?  English  voices  and 
English  hands  —  gad's  truth,  it 's  there  in  a  sen- 
tence —  the  whole  of  it." 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  cracking  his  fingers  ex- 
citedly ;  but  the  old  dame  continued  to  say,  "  God 
bless  me  !  "  as  she  had  said  ever  since  her  master 
brought  so  strange  a  guest  to  the  house. 

"  In  a  cafe  ?  My  word  !  And  a  Frenchman 
insulting  her;  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  that  we 
should  hear  such  things  !  " 

Richard  Watts  took  up  the  story,  and  told  it 
again  enthusiastically. 

"  I  was  going  to  see  if  there  was  anything  left 
to  eat  in  this  city  of  half-bricks  except  pate  de  fole 


270       The  Garden  of  Swords 

grasy  child.  If  you  had  n't  cried  out,  I  'd  never 
have  seen  you,  for  I  'm  as  blind  as  a  bat.  Then  I 
heard  your  voice,  and  looked  up.  c  It 's  the  little 
passenger,  by  gad,'  I  said.  The  rest  concerned 
the  Frenchman.  He  was  insulting  you,  eh  ? 
Listen  to  that,  Anne  Brown ;  he  insulted  her. 
He  asked  for  her  answer.  I  gave  it  him,  old  girl 
—  he  is  reading  it  now.  And  lucky  I  thought  of 
her  name.  They  would  have  torn  us  to  pieces, 
the  pair  of  us.  But  I  remembered.  Trust  old 
Dick  Watts,  who  has  the  devil  of  a  memory  for 
names.  He  remembered.  '  It 's  old  Helene's 
daughter,'  he  said.  And  they  stood  by  us  —  gad's 
truth,  they  stood  by  us." 

He  helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  wine,  and  drank 
it  at  a  gulp.  Beatrix,  still  hot  and  flushed,  and 
scarce  knowing  what  she  did,  rose  and  thanked  him 
once  more. 

"  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough,"  she  said ; 
"  and  I  must  not  intrude  upon  you." 

Richard  Watts  laughed  heartily. 

"  Intrude  —  listen  to  that,  Anne  Brown  ;  the 
little  passenger  intrudes." 

"'T  would  be  a  poor  house  where  you  could 
intrude,  miss,"  said  the  old  housekeeper  decisively. 
"  Let  the  master  send  a  word  to  your  home,  and 
tell  your  friends  what  has  happened.  We  are  not 
going  to  part  with  you  yet.  You  're  in  no  fit  state 


Confession  271 

to  walk  anywhere,  I  'm  sure,  and  as  for  carriages, 
God  bless  me,  how  many  days  is  it  since  I  saw 
one  in  this  street  ?  " 

Beatrix  answered  them  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  she  said  ;  "  there  is  no  one 
to  be  anxious  about  me.  It  is  something  else  —  I 
cannot  tell  you  —  I  wish  to  God  I  could." 

A  great  sense  of  loneliness  and  of  her  own 
terrible  day  overcame  her,  and  she  sank  into 
one  of  the  chairs  by  the  table  and  burst  into 
a  flood  of  passionate  weeping.  That  which  no 
Frenchman  in  Strasburg  could  wring  from  her 
was  to  be  told  in  this  room,  where  English 
friends  watched  her  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  and 
everything  recalled  the  home  she  had  lost  and 
the  faces  in  that  England  she  would  look  upon 
no  more. 

u  I  cannot  tell  you  —  I  must  not  tell  you,"  she 
repeated  again  and  again  as  the  gentle  arms  of  the 
woman  were  about  her  neck  and  a  mother's  voice 
besought  her  to  trust  them.  But  she  told  them  in 
the  end,  word  by  word,  confessing  all  —  Brandon's 
danger,  his  presence  in  the  city;  Gatelet's  threat 
that  he  would  betray  him  that  very  night.  And 
when  she  had  done,  it  was  as  though  some  great 
load  of  her  life  had  been  transferred  suddenly  to 
another's  shoulders,  and  must  be  borne,  as  a 
feather-weight,  henceforth,  by  this  giant  English- 


272       The  Garden  of  Swords 

man,  who  had  come  out  of  the  city's  night  in  the 
hour  of  her  necessity. 

Richard  Watts  heard  the  story,  sentence  by 
sentence,  often  taking  her  back  a  little  way  in 
the  narrative ;  always  ready  with  his  word  of 
sympathy  and  encouragement.  A  quick  thinker, 
he  grappled  with  the  situation  instantly.  It  was 
not  her  friend  that  he  was  called  upon  to  save,  but 
his  own  —  the  man  he  had  left  at  Worth ;  the 
man  whose  father  he  had  known  at  Frankfort 
twenty  years  ago. 

"  It  was  like  the  mad  scamp  to  come  here,"  he 
said,  when  she  told  him  of  Brandon's  first  visit ; 
u  he  should  n't  have  done  it.  The  news  would 
have  waited.  But  war  breeds  folly.  We  must 
save  him  from  that  folly,  little  lady.  Do  you  think 
that  the  scoundrel  down  yonder  has  told  anyone 
else  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  I  have  been  too  frightened  to  think,  Mr. 
Watts." 

"  Of  course  you  have.  It  was  his  game  to 
frighten  you.  I  don't  suppose  he's  taken  anyone 
into  partnership,  all  the  same.  That  would  n't 
suit  him.  But  he  '11  tell  all  he  knows  about 
Brandon  now,  be  sure  of  it.  And  we  have  n't 
much  time  to  lose,  my  child." 

She  could  see  that  he  was  very  thoughtful.     For 


Confession  273 

a  little  while  she  did  not  venture  to  speak  to  him, 
as  he  paced  the  room  silently,  often  taking  up  his 
hat,  and  as  often  setting  it  down  again.  She  knew 
that  the  danger  of  that  which  he  undertook  was 
not  hidden  from  him. 

"  If  anything  should  happen  to  you  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed suddenly. 

"  To  me,  young  lady.  Oh,  don't  bother  your  head 
about  that.  1  'm  an  Englishman ;  they  won't  hurt  me." 

u  And  you  think  that  you  can  save  Brandon  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that 's  another  question." 

She  shuddered. 

"  My  God,  if  they  should  discover  him  —  those 
men  who  killed  the  German  in  the  cafe." 

"  We  must  see  that  they  do  not,  little 
passenger." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door  ;  but 
upon  the  threshold  he  turned  and  asked  her  yet 
another  question  : 

"  I  shall  find  you  at  the  Place  Kleber  to-night  ? " 

"  Yes  ;   I  am  going  home  now." 

"Then,  if  the  news  is  good,  I  will  come  there 
at  six  o'clock." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  went 
out.  The  old  dame  brought  her  a  bowl  of  soup. 
She  took  a  few  sups  of  it,  and  made  some  excuse. 
Already  she  had  begun  to  count  the  minutes  of 
waiting. 

18 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE    LIGHT    IN    THE    WINDOW 

SHE  returned  to  the  Place  Kleber  at  four  o'clock ; 
nor  would  she  listen  to  the  old  housekeeper's 
entreaty  to  defer  her  departure  until  Richard 
Watts  came  in  with  his  news.  The  vague  hope 
that  some  tidings  of  her  husband  might  be 
brought  into  the  city  at  any  moment  put  chains 
upon  her  feet  when  she  had  to  go  abroad,  and  sent 
her  always  hurrying  gladly  to  her  home  again. 
For  the  danger  in  that  northern  quarter  she  had 
no  thought.  Soldiers  warned  her  as  she  crossed 
the  streets  which  civilians  had  forsaken.  She 
thanked  them,  but  did  not  pause.  The  crashing 
echoes  of  terrible  sounds  could  not  affright  her. 
She  would  have  faced  any  peril  to  read  a  word 
from  the  man  she  loved.  The  remembrance  that 
Edmond's  letter  might  be  lying  unopened  in  the 
lonely  house  could  compel  her  often  to  return 
there  excitedly,  as  though  her  troubles  would  be 
ended  by  a  miracle.  But  there  was  no  letter  lying 
there  when  she  returned  on  that  memorable  day  ; 
and  such  news  as  Guillaumette  vouchsafed  was 
news  of  the  terror  and  of  her  own  apprehensions. 


The  Light  in  the  Window    275 

"  We  cannot  stay  here,  Madame  ;  there  is  another 
house  struck  to-day.  Maitre  Bolot  and  his  chil- 
dren have  gone  to  the  cellars.  I  shall  die  of  fright. 
All  night  long  the  bourn,  bourn,  bourn.  Ah, 
Madame,  if  one  were  a  rabbit  to  live  under  the 
ground!  There  will  be  no  Place  Kleber  soon  — 
Henri  says  so.  c  Let  your  mistress  go  to  the 
General's  house,'  he  says.  Man  Dieu,  there  are 
men  in  the  General's  house  —  but  here — " 

She  wrung  her  hands  distractedly  and  stood  in 
the  gloomy  hall,  a  very  picture  of  woe.  Through 
the  shattered  ceiling  the  cloudy  sky  was  to  be  seen 
far  above ;  and  drops  of  rain  even  then  pattered 
upon  the  once  fine  carpet.  Beatrix  stood  an 
instant  to  look  up  at  the  broken  walls  of  that 
which  a  month  ago  was  her  little  sanctuary.  She 
could  see  her  pictures  still  hanging  there,  but  the 
wind  and  the  wet  had  soaked  the  curtains,  and 
plaster  had  hardened  upon  the  pretty  case  of  her 
cottage  piano.  No  one,  the  masons  told  her, 
must  venture  upon  that  staircase  now.  The  house 
was  not  safe,  they  said.  If  another  shell  were  to 
strike  it,  a  crumbling  heap  of  ruins  would  mark 
its  site  as  they  marked  the  site  of  many  a  princely 
house  in  Strasburg  that  day.  Yet  to  her  it  was 
a  home  still.  There,  for  the  first  time,  Edmond 
had  called  her  wife.  There  was  no  nook  of  it 
that  did  not  seem  to  whisper  some  story  of  her 


276       The  Garden  of  Swords 

love.  Thither  he  would  return  for  love  of  her. 
She  was  resolute  in  her  determination  to  keep  her 
trust  while  one  stone  stood  upon  another. 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long,  Guillaumette.  Mon- 
sieur will  come  back,  and  then  we  shall  go  away. 
There  are  others  in  Strasburg  who  have  not  even 
a  roof  to  shelter  them.  Remember  that  when 
Henri  tells  you  his  tales.  Only  children  fear  the 
darkness." 

"  Not  so,  Madame.  Henri  does  not  fear  the 
darkness  at  all.  That  is  for  me.  You  cannot 
see  their  arms  in  the  dark.  Ma  foil  one  prays 
God  not  to  send  Gaspard  back  from  the  wars. 
You  have  had  dejeuner,  Madame  ?  " 

"  All  that  I  want,  Guillaumette.  There  is  no 
letter  for  me  ?  " 

"  A  letter  —  who  should  write  a  letter, 
Madame  ?  " 

"  And  no  one  has  been  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  Henri  came  at  twelve  o'clock  to  say  that  you 
were  to  go  to  the  General's  house.  He  thinks 
about  you  always,  Madame.  There  is  no  one 
else." 

Beatrix  entered  the  dreary  dining-room  with  a 
sigh.  Great  beams  buttressed  the  ceiling  of  it ; 
the  windows  were  heavily  boarded  up  so  that  little 
rays  of  light,  stealing  in  through  many  a  chink, 
showed  lustrous  dust  as  a  room  long  barred  to  the 


The  Light  in  the  Window    277 

sun.  Everywhere  about  the  chamber  were  those 
necessaries  of  the  daily  life  which  spoke  eloquently 
of  the  dead.  An  open  book  with  a  note  upon  the 
margin  in  old  Helene  's  handwriting  —  a  list  of 
the  ambulances  with  names  of  the  poorer  sufferers  ; 
a  half-written  letter,  a  ball  of  wool,  the  last  copy 
of  the  Courrier  du  Bas-Rhin.  Above  the  mantel- 
shelf there  was  a  large  oil  painting  of  Marie 
Douay,  old  Helene's  child.  Her  mother's  was  a 
plaintive,  wayward  face,  Beatrix  thought  as  she 
gazed  upon  it.  Her  father  had  loved  that  face, 
but  the  mind  behind  it  had  never  been  linked  to 
his.  His  English  prejudices  had  wrecked  his  life. 
Racial  antipathy,  forgotten  in  the  hour  of  passion, 
had  revived  in  the  sombre  atmosphere  of  domestic 
monotony.  Beatrix  remembered  that  she,  too, 
had  married  one  who  looked  with  contempt  upon 
the  England  she  loved.  She  asked  herself  if, 
when  these  dreadful  days  were  forgotten  and  peace 
should  build  her  a  house  again,  the  story  of  the 
father  must  be  told  again  by  the  child.  It  was 
but  the  reflection  of  a  moment,  a  passing  thought 
born  in  that  gloomy  room.  She  put  it  away  from 
her  resolutely,  and,  crossing  the  darkened  chamber, 
she  knelt  before  Edmond  's  portrait  and  kissed  it 
passionately.  The  barrier  which  her  own  fore- 
bodings had  put  between  them  was  broken  now 
that  another  shared  her  secret.  She  desired  her 


278       The  Garden  of  Swords 

husband's  return  ardently.  She  had  nothing  to 
conceal  from  him.  If  only  her  friend  were 
saved,  she  thought  that  she  could  remember  this 
war  as  some  chastening  epoch  of  her  life,  which 
had  permitted  her  to  look  into  the  book  of  her 
affections  and  to  read  there,  without  fear,  of  that 
which  was  written  —  if  only  her  friend  were  saved. 
It  was  her  secret  no  more,  and  yet  it  pursued 
her  relentlessly,  even  there  at  the  Place  Kleber. 
Alone  in  the  silent  room  she  almost  counted  the 
seconds  as  the  pendulum  in  the  old  clock  num- 
bered them.  Every  sound  in  the  street  was  the 
omen  of  message  for  her.  She  could  find  no 
employment  to  which  she  might  put  her  hand. 
The  open  piano  mocked  her  as  she  listened  to  the 
rolling  music  of  the  shells  and  the  shivering  chords 
of  the  great  guns'  victories.  When  she  looked 
out  from  the  staircase  window  of  the  house  the 
same  melancholy  scene  ever  rewarded  her  eyes. 
Whole  acres,  which  were  streets  and  churches 
and  markets  a  month  ago,  were  now  but  rubble  for 
the  builder's  cart.  She  could  see  the  wind-tossed 
flames  rising  up  above  the  ruined  north  ;  her  im- 
agination depicted  for  her  a  people  living  below  the 
earth  for  fear  of  the  death  which  was  everywhere 
above  them.  Hunger,  want,  poverty,  terror,  anger 
—  the  whole  gamut  of  the  passions  might  be  struck 
in  such  an  hour.  And  yet  Strasburg  did  not  yield. 


The  Light  in  the  Window    279 

Black  and  bloody,  mourning  its  dead  every  day, 
shaken  to  its  very  foundations,  threatening  soon 
to  become  the  dust  of  that  earth  from  which  it 
had  arisen  —  the  heart  of  the  city  remained  its 
own.  "  Until  the  last  stone,"  the  Governor 
had  said.  That  day  could  not  be  distant,  Beatrix 
thought. 

Richard  Watts  had  promised  to  bring  her  news 
of  Brandon  at  six  o'clock,  but  the  bells  struck  the 
hour,  and  again  the  half-hour,  and  there  was  no 
message  from  him.  For  a  long  while  she  waited, 
the  victim  of  doubt  intolerable,  and  of  a  presenti- 
ment she  could  not  seek  to  justify.  As  the 
minutes  passed,  her  conviction  became  more  sure. 
The  old  Bohemian  had  failed  her,  she  said.  He 
had  gone  to  the  Rue  de  PArc-en-Ciel  to  find  that 
Brandon  was  no  longer  there  —  perhaps  even  to 
learn  of  his  death.  The  man  Gatelet  was  not 
one  to  forgive.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  have  betrayed  her  friend.  She  hoped 
for  no  clemency  for  him.  At  seven  o'clock  she 
told  herself  that  Brandon  certainly  was  dead,  and 
that  Watts  feared  to  come  with  an  admission  of 
his  failure.  She  could  endure  the  doubt  no  longer, 
but  putting  on  her  hat,  and  caring  nothing  for  the 
heavy  rain  which  hissed  upon  the  burning  city, 
she  ran  to  the  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel,  and  did  not 
pause  until  she  stood  at  the  tavern  door. 


280       The  Garden  of  Swords 

There  were  few  in  the  street,  for  the  storm  had 
driven  even  the  troops  to  shelter.  In  the  tavern 
itself  the  bright  light  shone  upon  many  faces  — 
the  faces  of  men  weary  with  service  at  the  guns ; 
the  faces  of  countrymen  sodden  with  wine  and 
wet;  the  faces  of  traitors  declaiming  in  drunken 
frenzy  against  those  who  did  not  drive  the  Ger- 
mans from  the  gates.  A  few  women,  whose  coarse 
finery  was  as  some  dissolute  echo  of  the  forgotten 
day  of  peace,  laughed  in  discordant  keys,  or  gave 
the  notes  of  ribald  songs.  Everywhere  the  enor- 
mity of  the  night  appeared  to  have  driven  such 
as  ventured  from  their  homes  to  riot  and  debauch- 
ery. Men  struck  each  other  in  the  tavern  and 
were  applauded  by  their  comrades.  A  loutish 
gunner,  whom  wine  had  robbed  of  his  wits,  was 
thrown  into  the  gutter,  and  lay  there  with  the 
rain  beating  upon  his  face.  Mob  orators  stood 
upon  stools  and  prated  of  the  glories  of  the  siege. 
A  fiddler  struck  up  the  notes  of  the  "  Mourir  pour 
la  Patrie,"  while  a  hussy  bawled  incessantly,  "  Vive 
P  armee —  1'  armee  !  "  Presently  the  "  Marseil- 
laise "  was  sung  by  many  throats  hoarse  and  dis- 
cordant. A  man  threw  a  wine  flask  through  one 
of  the  glass  windows.  The  cafe  would  have  been 
wrecked  but  for  the  appeals  of  an  old  soldier,  who 
had  lost  an  arm  at  Worth,  and  whose  voice  spoke 
as  eloquently  as  his  wound. 


The  Light  in  the  Window    281 

Such  was  the  scene  upon  the  ground  floor  of  the 
auberge  —  a  scene  in  striking  contrast  to  the  dark 
and  gloomy  windows  above.  There  was  no  light 
in  any  bedroom  of  the  house,  nor  any  sign  of  life 
there.  Beatrix  even  could  take  heart  when  she 
beheld  the  unlighted  windows  of  the  garret 
wherein  Brandon  had  been  a  prisoner.  After  all, 
Richard  Watts  had  good  news  for  her.  She  did 
not  doubt  that  he  had  contrived  her  friend's 
escape.  Possibly  Brandon  was  at  that  moment  a 
prisoner  in  his  house,  with  old  Anne  Brown  for 
his  jailor,  and  an  English  home  for  his  cell.  She 
took  great  courage  of  the  conviction,  and  was 
about  to  return  to  the  Place  Kleber,  full  of  the 
expectancy  of  good  tidings,  when  a  window  in  the 
house  by  which  she  stood  was  opened  suddenly, 
and  the  head  of  a  soldier  peered  out  into  the  night. 
Instinctively  she  crouched  back  against  the  shutters 
of  the  shop ;  and  so  standing  she  observed  the 
man  ;  while  he,  in  turn,  gazed  steadfastly  at  the 
unlighted  windows  opposite,  and  then  answered  a 
question  asked  by  someone  invisible  in  the  room 
behind  him. 

"  The  Englishman  has  left,  Francois  ?  " 
"  There   is  no  light  there,  M'sieur." 
u  Of   course,   there    would    be   no    light.     We 
shall  catch  the  pair  of  them.     Why  does  not  he 
come  ?      It  was  for  eight  o'clock." 


282       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"Well,  they  are  ready  in  the  cafe.  Shall  I 
send  for  Benoit,  M'sieur  ?  " 

He  did  not  wait  for  the  response,  but  shut  the 
window  with  a  crash.  To  Beatrix  the  few  words 
were  as  a  sentence  of  doom  pronounced  against 
her  friends.  Richard  Watts  had  failed,  then.  He 
and  Brandon  were  over  there  in  the  garret  to- 
gether. The  house  was  watched.  Those  who 
watched  it  were  waiting  for  some  signal  to  begin 
their  work.  She  imagined  readily  that  Gatelet 
was  the  one  who  delayed.  She  remembered  that 
he  had  spoken  of  the  need  of  his  presence  at  the 
citadel.  They  must  have  detained  him  there,  she 
thought.  It  was  an  intolerable,  enduring  agony  to 
stand  out  there  in  the  wet  and  the  cold,  and  to  tell 
herself  that  the  last  two  friends  she  possessed  in 
Strasburg  might  die  when  a  few  minutes  had 
passed.  What  to  do  she  knew  not.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  enter  the  house  by  the  side  door 
and  to  confess  all  she  had  heard  and  seen.  But 
when  she  emerged  from  the  shadows  and  crossed 
the  street,  she  found  a  sentry  pacing  the  alley, 
and  his  bayonet  was  fixed  upon  his  rifle.  She 
saw  the  man  without  surprise,  for  she  expected  to 
find  him  there.  But  the  reality  of  his  presence 
was  as  some  final  crushing  blow.  She  did  not 
move  from  the  place  where  first  she  had  perceived 
him.  The  vision  of  that  scene  in  the  cafe  before 


The  Light  in  the  Window    283 

the  Minster  doors  came  to  her  with  a  vividness 
as  of  the  moment  of  its  happening.  Brandon 
was  to  die,  then,  as  that  other  had  died.  This 
was  the  end  of  their  folly. 

The  sentry  paced  the  alley  with  slow  steps. 
Sometimes  he  would  lean  wearily  against  the 
door  of  the  house ;  at  other  times  he  went  a 
little  way  out  into  the  street  to  look  up  at  the 
unlighted  windows  above.  He  did  not  see  that 
the  girl  watched  him,  for  she  stood  at  the  corner 
of  the  street,  and  he  had  eyes  only  for  the  tavern. 
Once,  indeed,  an  exclamation  escaped  his  lips,  and 
he  crossed  the  alley  and  remained  for  quite  a  long 
time  gazing  up  at  the  attics.  A  light,  appearing 
suddenly  in  Brandon's  room,  warned  him  to 
the  action.  Beatrix  saw  the  light,  too,  and  the 
shadows  it  cast  upon  the  blind.  They  were  the 
shadows  of  Brandon  and  of  Richard  Watts.  She 
had  no  longer  a  doubt.  Her  friends  were  in  the 
house.  She  was  impotent  to  help  them.  A  cry 
of  hers  would  bring  the  drunkards  from  the  cafe 
leaping  as  devils  to  the  work.  She  could  but 
stand  and  wait — God  knew  for  what  horror  of 
that  September  night. 

The  light  remained  in  the  window,  it  may 
have  been  for  twenty  minutes ;  but  the  shadows 
of  the  men  vanished  instantly.  It  seemed  to 
Beatrix  that  hours  of  suspense  passed  before 


284       The  Garden  of  Swords 

there  was  any  new  movement  in  the  street ;  yet 
she  knew  that  she  had  waited  there  but  a  little 
time,  for  she  heard  the  church  clock  strike  nine, 
and  she  could  see  that  the  candle  in  the  room 
above  had  burned  down  but  a  little  way  in  its 
stick.  As  the  moments  passed  and  the  suspense 
became  almost  insupportable,  she  began  to  pace 
the  street  again  ;  telling  herself  that  now  the  end 
was  coming ;  or  listening  for  footsteps  upon  the 
pavement;  or  seeking  to  read  some  message  of 
hope  upon  the  golden  blind.  Always  with  her  was 
the  sure  and  torturing  knowledge  that  she  could  do 
nothing  for  those  who  had  done  so  much  for  her. 

D 

In  all  Strasburg  there  was  no  friend  who  would 
help  those  friends  of  hers.  The  very  blinding  rain 
which  still  fell  upon-  her  burning  face  was  as  some 
truth  of  the  pitiless  night.  Brandon  must  die  — 
there  in  the  garret.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why 
the  peril  in  which  this  man  stood  could  move  her 
to  such  agonies  of  distress.  He  was  to  die.  She 
had  seen  another  die  at  the  Minster  doors,  and  he 
had  been  a  stranger.  But  this  man  was  her  friend, 
almost  her  brother  —  one  of  her  own  race.  In 
that  moment  she  knew  that  her  heart  lay  wholly 
in  the  England  she  had  left,  and  that  never  again 
would  a  sentiment  born  of  passion  mislead  her  to 
a  hope  in  France  and  a  desire  for  kinship  with  its 
people. 


The  Light  in  the  Window    285 

As  ten  o'clock  was  struck  by  all  the  bells  of 
Strasburg,  a  man  riding  a  black  horse  came  down 
the  Rue  de  l'Arc-en-Ciel  at  a  canter.  She  recog- 
nised him  as  Gatelet,  and  she  saw  him  enter  the 
house  where  the  watchers  were  concealed.  Anon, 
three  men  came  out  of  the  house  together  and 
crossed  over  to  the  tavern.  She  knew  why  they 
had  gone,  and  she  stood  as  a  figure  of  stone  while 
their  loud  talking  was  heard  even  in  the  street. 
Presently  a  roar  of  voices  answered  their  appeal. 
Troopers  in  a  frenzy  of  drunken  passion  came 
running  out  of  the  house  to  cry  that  there  was  a 
spy  in  the  garret  above.  A  woman,  with  a  besom 
dipped  in  resin  for  a  torch,  began  to  sing  the 
"  Marseillaise."  Others  who  had  not  been  in 
the  tavern  were  drawn  from  the  neighbouring 
houses  to  make  a  great  press  now  swarming 
before  the  doors  of  the  auberge.  A  young  officer 
of  artillery  climbed  a  pillar  and  cried  incessantly 
"  A  la  lanterne"  Others  demanded  that  the 
tavern  should  be  fired.  Inside  the  house  itself 
a  terrible  uproar  was  to  be  heard.  Men  fought 
upon  the  narrow  stairs  as  dogs  for  a  bone.  Win- 
dows were  opened  in  the  street,  and  new  cries  for 
tidings  swelled  the  clamour.  Mounted  troopers 
rode  up  to  the  alley  and  besought  those  inside  to 
throw  the  spy  down  to  them.  In  the  garret  itself 
there  were  many  lights,  and  many  figures  upon 


286       The  Garden  of  Swords 

the  blind  until  a  strong  hand  tore  it  down  and  an 
elbow  shivered  the  glass  behind  it.  The  very  pit 
of  hell  seemed  opened  there.  The  mob  swayed 
to  and  fro,  delirious  with  anger  and  the  desire  of 
death. 

Beatrix  had  been  caught  up  in  the  press,  and 
was  thrust  forward  toward  that  door  which  she 
had  passed  with  such  hesitation  but  a  few  days 
ago.  The  roar  of  the  multitude  was  as  the  song 
of  the  sea  in  her  ears.  She  saw  a  vision  of 
devilish  faces  upturned ;  of  savage  men  bran- 
dishing knives  and  swords  and  any  weapons  that 
came  to  their  hand ;  of  a  window  bright  with 
many  lights,  and  of  figures  moving  there.  She 
heard  men  say  that  the  German  was  taken  j  terri- 
ble sounds  of  glass-breaking  and  of  the  oaths  of 
the  frenzied  troopers  rent  her  ears  as  the  voices 
of  tempest.  She  tried  to  utter  an  appeal  for 
mercy,  but  no  words  left  her  lips.  Her  friend 
was  dead,  she  thought.  He  had  paid  with  his  life 
for  their  jest  upon  the  field  of  Worth. 

And  so  she  ran  from  the  place  as  the  flames 
of  the  burning  tavern  added  their  mite  to  the 
sea  of  fire  which  surged  above  the  doomed  city, 
and  warned  those  who  looked  upon  Strasburg 
from  afar  that  the  day  of  waiting  was  drawing 
to  its  end. 


"  Savage  men  brandishing  knives  and  swords." 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

ACCUSATION 

GUILLAUMETTE  opened  the  door  to  her,  and  stood 
exclaiming  upon  the  threshold  — 

"  Madame  —  oh,  Madame  !  " 

"  Let  me  pass,  Guillaumette  —  I  am  very  ill 
and  my  clothes  are  wet." 

"  But —  Madame —  oh,  man  Dieu!  and  Monsieur 
has  come  back." 

Beatrix  shut  the  door  quietly.  The  draughts 
through  the  broken  ceiling  of  the  hall  played 
with  the  gas-jet  there,  and  cast  a  garish,  fitful 
light  upon  the  faces  of  the  women.  From  the 
dining-room  there  came  the  echo  of  voices.  Men 
were  talking  in  the  room,  and  one  of  them  was 
Edmond  Lefort. 

"  He  came  back  an  hour  ago,  Madame ;  he 
would  not  eat  or  sit  until  you  were  here.  And 
now  the  Captain  Gatelet  is  with  him  —  and  you 
—  Holy  Virgin  !  " 

She  wrung  her  hands,  and  tears  came  into 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  upon  the  pale  face  and 
trembling  hands  and  sodden  clothes  of  her  mis- 


288       The  Garden  of  Swords 

tress.  But  Beatrix  did  not  hear  her.  For  an 
instant  she  hesitated,  cold  and  faint  and  dizzy 
in  the  hall.  The  words  "  Edmond  is  here  "  were 
exquisite  beyond  any  words  she  had  spoken  in 
all  her  life.  Out  of  the  darkness  and  the  place 
of  death  she  had  come  back  there  to  this  reward 
—  to  her  lover's  arms. 

Maladroitly,  yet  with  eager  fingers,  she  put 
off  her  cloak  and  hat.  In  shadow  as  the  mirror 
was,  it  yet  enabled  her  to  see  her  own  white  face 
and  straightened  hair  and  disordered  frock.  A 
woman's  vanity,  even  in  such  an  hour,  gave  the 
wish  that  Edmond  might  see  her  otherwise.  But 
her  thought  of  self  was  momentary  ;  and  when 
she  had  stood  an  instant,  combating  an  agitation 
which  threatened  to  unnerve  her  utterly,  she 
opened  the  door  and  entered  the  room. 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  table, 
listening  earnestly  to  Gatelet,  who  told  him  the 
story  of  the  night.  He  had  not  heard  her  knock, 
for  the  narrative  absorbed  him  entirely,  and  when 
she  entered  all  unexpectedly  an  exclamation  burst 
from  his  lips,  and  he  stood  regarding  her  awk- 
wardly. She  had  thought  that  he  would  hold  out 
his  arms  to  her,  or  give  her  some  warm  word  of 
welcome  even  before  another  ;  but  no  word  was 
uttered,  nor  did  he  make  any  movement.  She,  in 
turn,  was  as  one  struck  dumb.  The  lights  danced 


Accusation  289 

before  her  eyes.  She  tried  to  utter  his  name,  but 
her  lips  would  not  help  her. 

Lefort  was  the  first  to  speak.  There  was 
no  anger  in  his  voice,  but  rather  the  tone  of 
one  who  must  pronounce  some  judicial  and  im- 
partial sentence.  She  knew,  when  she  heard 
him,  that  no  event  of  the  past  week  remained 
to  be  told. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,  Beatrix,"  he 
said ;  "  the  Captain  has  been  telling  me  about 
to-night,  and  it  is  right  that  you  should  hear 
him.  All  this  is  news  to  me,  and  I  wait  until 
you  speak.  Of  course,  you  must  have  much  to 
say  to  us  ?  " 

He  paused,  regarding  her  curiously.  She  stood 
against  the  wall,  a  wan  and  desolate  figure  facing 
her  accuser  —  for  this  she  knew  that  Gatelet  was. 

"  If  this  man  has  spoken,  he  has  told  you 
that  our  friend  is  dead,"  she  exclaimed  angrily. 
"  I  went  to  the  Rue  de  PArc-en-Ciel  to-night, 
but  could  not  save  him.  He  died  in  the  tavern 
there  because  I  did  not  wish  to  be  Monsieur 
Gatelet's  friend.  Is  not  that  your  news,  Mon- 
sieur ? " 

A  new  courage,  born   of  the   danger,  came  to 

her  as  she  confronted  them.      Impossible  for  her 

to    realise    that    her    husband    had    ceased    to    be 

her  lover.      She  had    only   to  speak,  she  thought. 

19 


290       The  Garden  of  Swords 

Gatelet,  in  his  turn,  was  quick  to  pursue  an 
advantage  of  her  words. 

u  Madame,"  he  said,  "  I  will  leave  you  to  ex- 
plain everything  to  your  husband.  He  will  judge 
of  the  rest  by  what  you  have  just  told  us.  The 
spy  did  not  die  in  the  city  to-night,  Madame, 
because  you  and  your  confederates  were  before 
us  in  the  house.  If  I  wished  you  to  be  my 
friend,  it  was  to  save  your  husband's  name  from 
disgrace.  It  will  be  for  him  to  say  to-morrow,  if 
not  to-night,  whether  I  have  done  my  duty  or 
have  failed  in  it." 

He  bowed  curtly  to  them  both  and  left  the 
house.  They  heard  the  door  shut  and  still  were 
silent.  The  news  of  Brandon's  escape  dumfounded 
her.  She  could  not  believe  that  Edmond,  her 
lover,  stood  before  her,  silent,  stern,  unpitying. 
The  desire  to  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
to  be  held  in  his  embrace  and  there  to  tell  her 
story  was  such  a  desire  as  might  well  have  broken 
down  all  her  pride  and  cast  her  prostrate  at  his 
feet.  But  some  chain  of  her  destiny  held  her 
back.  He  had  listened  to  the  slander  —  he,  the 
man  she  had  loved  with  all  her  heart  and  soul. 
She  set  her  heart  against  any  thought  of  love  when 
he  began  to  speak  again. 

"  Beatrix,"  he  exclaimed,  when  minutes  of 
angry  silence  had  elapsed,  "  I  have  signed  away 


Accusation  291 

my  honour  to  return  to  you  to-night.  God  help 
me  if  these  things  I  hear  are  true.  Let  us  have 
no  misunderstanding.  They  say  that  you  left 
Worth  with  Brandon  North.  Is  that  a  lie  ?  " 

"  It  is  no  lie.  I  left  there  with  our  friend  — 
with  your  friend.  They  burned  our  house,  and 
there  was  no  one  in  Worth  to  help  me.  Brandon 
found  an  Englishman  who  drove  me  to  Strasburg. 
Was  that  a  crime  against  your  honour  ?  " 

She  spoke  in  a  voice  grown  hard  and  satirical. 
He  bit  his  lips  and  pursued  the  question. 

u  There  can  be  no  friendship  in  war,"  he  said 
quietly  ;  "  this  man  has  chosen  to  be  the  enemy 
of  France.  He  is,  therefore,  my  enemy,  and 
should  have  been  yours.  Admitting  that  danger 
led  you  to  forget  these  things  —  and  I  see  the 
possibility  of  that  —  how  came  it  that  you  met 
him  in  Strasburg  and  went  to  his  house  there?" 

"  I  went  that  he  might  carry  my  letter  to 
you.  I  knew  that  he  had  come  here  out  of 
pure  friendship  to  me.  There  was  no  news  of 
you  except  the  news  that  he  brought  into  Stras- 
burg. Cannot  you  understand  that,  Edmond  ? 
When  he  was  wounded,  my  honour  and  gratitude 
compelled  me  to  befriend  him.  Would  you  have 
done  less,  had  you  been  here  ?  You  know  that 
you  would  not  —  " 

"  We   are  not  discussing   my  actions   but  your 


292       The  Garden  of  Swords 

own,  Beatrix.  If  I  had  gone  to  a  woman's  house, 
a  Frenchwoman's,  under  such  circumstances  as 
you  went  to  the  house  of  Brandon  North,  I  should 
have  known  beforehand  what  you  would  think  of 
me.  Do  you  not  see  that  you  have  dishonoured 
me  in  the  eyes  of  every  man  who  hears  of  these 
things  ?  And  are  you  child  enough  to  believe  that 
the  Englishman  came  to  Strasburg  simply  with  the 
desire  to  serve  you  ?  My  God,  Beatrix,  are  you 
child  enough  to  believe  that  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  defiantly. 

"Brandon  is  an  Englishman,"  she  said.  "He 
does  not  lie  as  your  friends  lie.  I  know  that  he 
came  here  to  serve  me.  I  am  glad  that  my  friends 
saved  him  to-night.  If  your  love  of  me  is  such  a 
little  thing  that  every  word  of  slander  can  influence 
it,  believe  what  you  will.  I  have  told  you  my 
story.  Do  not  think  that  I  shall  appeal  to  you  to 
accept  it,  Edmond." 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  rest- 
lessly. In  the  intervals  of  silence  the  thunder  of 
the  German  cannon  could  be  heard  as  a  dreadful 
tocsin  of  the  night.  The  old  house  quivered  at 
every  savage  discharge. 

"Your  friend  is  an  Englishman,"  he  said, 
deliberating  his  words.  "  Your  heart  was  never 
in  France  nor  for  me,  Beatrix.  From  the  first 
day  you  spoke  of  England  and  not  of  my  country. 


Accusation  293 

The  army  I  serve  has  meant  nothing  to  you.  My 
honour  was  in  your  keeping,  and  you  sold  it  to 
this  man  —  because  he  was  your  fellow  country- 
man. If  it  had  been  otherwise,  you  would  have 
died  in  our  home  at  Worth  before  a  German 
bivouac  should  have  protected  you.  I  cannot 
conceal  these  things  from  myself.  God  knows  it 
was  for  love  of  you,  to  hear  your  voice  again, 
that  I  gave  my  word  and  came  back  to  this  house 
ashamed  to  show  my  face  to  men.  You  have 
rewarded  me  by  harbouring  the  enemies  of  France 
and  saving  them  from  justice.  I  can  never  for- 
give that,  Beatrix.  There  must  be  no  more  talk 
of  love  between  us.  We  have  both  made  a  mis- 
take—  let  it  begin  and  end  with  that,  and  God 
help  me  to  deal  with  the  man  who  has  made  my 
home  desolate." 

She  answered  him  with  a  little  nervous  laugh, 
which  the  intense  emotion  of  the  moment  pro- 
voked. Nor  was  there  wanting  a  certain  con- 
tempt for  his  threat. 

"  Your  home  is  desolate  if  you  choose  to  make 
it  so,"  she  said,  looking  him  full  in  the  face. 
"  The  folly  will  be  yours.  As  for  your  honour,  I 
am  sorry  you  value  it  so  lightly.  Does  honour 
betray  a  friend  because  he  is  wounded  and  helpless  ? 
Oh,  you  will  deal  with  Brandon  very  easily  —  his 
foot  is  crushed,  and  he  cannot  stand.  It  was 


294       The  Garden  of  Swords 

crushed  because  he  wished  to  bring  me  news  of 
you,  Edmond." 

"  As  he  has  told  you.  And  you  are  simple 
enough  to  believe  it  ?  He,  a  German  soldier, 
comes  into  Strasburg  to  help  me,  a  French  hussar. 
It  is  a  story  for  a  fairy  book.  I  do  not  read  books 
like  that.  I  tell  myself  that  when  a  man  risks  his 
life  to  see  a  woman,  she  is  not  as  other  women  to 
him.  A  true  wife  would  not  have  spoken  to  such 
a  man.  You  have  seen  him  every  day ;  you  have 
been  to  his  rooms;  you  have  helped  him  to-night 
to  get  back  to  the  German  lines  and  to  tell  them 
that  Strasburg  is  at  death's  door,  a  burning  city, 
a  city  which  can  no  longer  help  France.  Is 
that  the  work  that  my  wife  should  do  ?  God 
help  me  —  my  wife  !  " 

He  stood  before  her,  white  now  with  anger,  as 
thus  he  weighed  the  evidence  and  seemed  to  judge 
her  story  for  himself.  She  did  not  utter  any  word 
nor  seek  to  defend  herself.  If  he,  Edmond,  her 
lover,  could  believe  that,  then,  indeed,  would  she  be 
for  ever  silent.  But  he  continued  relentlessly  : 

"  You  love  this  man ;  why  do  you  deny  it  ?  " 

A  cry  which  was  half  a  moan  came  to  her 
lips. 

"  Oh,  my  God  —  my  God  !  " 

"  But  I  shall  kill  him,  Beatrix.  My  honour 
can  wait  for  that.  He  is  in  the  city  still.  No 


Accusation  295 

other  now  shall  pay  that  debt.  It  is  mine  —  you 
hear,  mine.  All  your  acting  will  not  save  him. 
And  I  shall  see  you  suffer  as  I  must  suffer,  because 
I  thought  you  were  the  best  —  the  truest  woman  in 
France ! " 

Her  face  was  tearless  when  she  lifted  it  to 
answer  him. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  do  not  think  so  now,"  she 
said. 

He  ground  his  heel  into  the  carpet,  for  all  his 
self-control  had  gone,  and  an  empty  vanity  com- 
pelled him  more  and  more  to  think  of  the  shame 
which  would  fall  upon  him  personally  when  the 
story  of  these  things  was  known. 

"  Your  confession  is  unnecessary,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  was  a  fool  to  ask  you  to  explain.  Your  father 
left  your  mother  because  she  was  a  Frenchwoman  ; 
you  have  betrayed  my  country  because  I  am  a 
Frenchman.  It  is  useless  to  lie  to  me.  You  are 
judged  out  of  your  own  mouth.  My  country 
means  nothing  to  you.  The  sufferings  of  my 
country  give  you  pleasure.  You  are  the  friend 
of  those  who  have  brought  this  suffering  upon 
us.  I  do  not  want  to  hear  more.  Henceforth  I 
will  forget  your  name  —  I  will  forget,  when  this 
man  is  dead,  that  you  ever  came  to  Strasburg 
to  dishonour  me  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  have 
loved  me.  You  shall  hear  my  name  no  more  — 


296       The  Garden  of  Swords 

never  again,  as  God  is  my  witness,  will  I  enter 
the  house  which  shelters  you.  Do  not  seek  to 
turn  from  that ;  do  not  seek  to  find  me  out.  The 
past  is  irrevocable ;  I  will  begin  a  new  page,  and 
your  name  shall  not  be  written  upon  it.  If  they 
say  of  me,  l  He  was  a  coward,'  they  shall  say  it 
no  more  when  your  lover  is  dead.  Do  not  make 
any  mistake,  Beatrix.  I  will  not  sleep  until  I 
have  found  him  out.  I  will  watch  his  house 
night  and  day  until  he  has  answered  with  the 
only  answer  a  liar  can  give  —  his  life.  That  is 
my  farewell  to  you  —  oh,  my  God,  that  I  should 
be  here  in  Strasburg  to  utter  it !  " 

He  paused  suddenly  and  looked  at  her.  She 
stood  white-faced  and  mute  against  the  wall  by 
the  door.  Her  eyes  were  as  stars  in  the  dim 
light.  Her  hands  were  locked  together,  and  she 
tapped  the  boards  nervously  with  her  little  foot. 
And  she  was  still  standing  so  when  he  left  the 
room  and  passed  out  to  the  darkness  of  the 
terrible  city. 

But  at  dawn  Guillaumette  found  her  senseless 
upon  the  floor,  and  hours  passed  before  it  was 
known  whether  she  were  alive  or  dead. 


"  She  stood  white-faced  and  mute  against  the  wall." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

"  IF    STRASBURG    FALLS  " 

THERE  followed  upon  her  illness  a  week  of  dreams, 
which  were  the  delirium  of  a  brain  overwrought, 
and  of  the  burden  she  had  carried  for  so  many 
days.  She  knew  not  where  she  was  or  whose 
were  the  voices  which  spoke  to  her,  but  seemed 
to  be  living  in  a  world  apart  —  in  a  dreadful  valley 
of  shadows  and  of  constant  turmoil.  Faces  came 
to  her  fitfully  in  her  dreams,  the  faces  she  had 
known  in  childhood  —  her  mother's  face  and  the 
face  of  Edmond  bending  over  her  while  she  slept. 
To  him  she  stretched  out  her  arms,  but  could 
not  touch  his  hand  before  the  vision  passed.  No 
finality  even  of  the  dream  was  permitted  to  that 
burning  brain.  As  in  a  whirlpool  of  the  mind 
she  was  tossed  hither  and  thither  in  thought ; 
now  battling  with  the  flames,  which  gave  a  golden 
radiance  to  the  city  of  doom  ;  now  living  through 
the  night  of  Worth  again  ;  now  at  her  husband's 
feet  imploring  him,  for  love  of  her,  to  save  the 
life  of  their  friend.  A  thousand  voices  spoke  to 
her,  but  she  could  recognize  none  of  them.  She 
did  not  know  that  Strasburg,  minute  by  minute, 


298       The  Garden  of  Swords 

crumbled  to  the  dust.  Sleep  gave  her  nought  but 
this  prompting  to  labour  unceasing  of  the  mind,  to 
this  unending  battle  of  the  flame  and  smoke  and 
faces  of  her  visions. 

Reason  came  back  to  her  at  last ;  but  ten  days 
had  passed,  and  she  was  in  the  Place  Kleber  no 
longer.  When  she  opened  her  heavy  eyes  and 
sought  to  raise  herself  upon  her  bed,  she  saw  that 
they  had  carried  her  to  a  strange  house  and  laid 
her  in  a  strange  room.  So  bare  and  gloomy  and 
vault-like  was  that  chamber  that  she  might  well 
have  been  in  the  tombs.  Even  the  pillars  which 
carried  the  arches  of  the  vaulted  ceiling  suggested 
an  abiding  place  of  the  dead.  The  candles  burn- 
ing at  her  bedside  were  as  watch-lights  to  her  eyes.' 
She  heard  no  sound  of  any  voice,  but  only  the 
thunder  of  the  cannon  rolling  distantly  over  the 
city  above.  Her  weakness  was  beyond  expression. 
She  could  not  lift  a  hand  from  the  coverlet  of  the 
bed.  She  thought  that  she  was  dying,  and  the 
rest  of  death  seemed  to  come  upon  her  as  the 
sweetest  gift  of  God. 

Guillaumette  came  into  the  room  presently 
walking  upon  tiptoe  and  carrying  a  basin  of  soup 
in  her  hand.  When  she  saw  that  her  mistress 
was  awake,  she  set  down  the  bowl  quickly,  and 
ran  from  the  room  crying,  "Monsieur,  Mon- 
sieur !  "  The  cry  brought  the  aged  Abbe  Colot 


"  If  Strasburg  Falls  "        299 

to  the  place,  and  he  entered  in  haste,  uttering, 
as  he  did  so,  a  prayer  of  thanks  that  his  little 
patient  lived. 

"  Ah  !  my  child  ;  you  are  awake,  then.  Glory 
be  to  God  for  this  hour." 

Beatrix  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes. 

"  Whose  house  is  this  ?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  my  house  —  you  have  been  very  ill 
here.  They  brought  you  to  me  from  the  Place 
Kleber.  Ah,  man  enfant,  there  is  no  more 
Place  Kleber  —  no  more  Strasburg.  We  live 
in  the  vaults ;  we  do  not  see  the  sun.  You 
are  very  weak,  Madame." 

She  sighed,  and  laid  her  pretty  head  upon  the 
pillow. 

"If  I  only  could  remember,  Monsieur!"  she 
said.  "  I  have  seen  so  many  things.  It  is  all 
night  —  night." 

"  But  it  will  be  day  soon,  my  child." 

Guillaumette  chimed  in  with  her  word. 

"  And  here  is  the  beautiful  soup,  Madame. 
Oh  !  Madame,  what  soup  it  is.  And  nothing 
soon  to  eat  but  the  fat  geese's  livers  and  the 
horses'  bones.  I  do  not  love  the  geese  —  not  at 
all,  Madame.  And  you  have  been  so  ill,  so  ill. 
Every  day  I  said,  '  She  will  die  to-day.'  Was 
it  not  so,  Monsieur  ?  Is  she  not  to  drink  the 
beautiful  soup  ?  " 


300       The  Garden  of  Swords 

A  poor  wan  smile  crossed  the  pale  face  as 
Beatrix  listened  to  the  odd  confession.  Her 
awakened  mind  was  busy  already  at  the  point 
where  its  chord  of  right  reason  had  snapped. 

"  Has  my  husband  been  here  ? "  she  asked 
them  suddenly. 

The  abbe  shook  his  head.  He  had  not  heard 
of  Lefort's  return,  and  he  set  down  her  question 
to  the  delirium  which  had  left  her. 

"  He  is  not  in  Strasburg,  surely,  my  child.  He 
will  come  presently.  Your  friends  do  not  forget 
you.  Monsieur  Watts  is  here  twice  a  day.  He  was 
here  this  morning;  he  will  come  again  to-night." 

She  listened  to  him  as  to  one  who  spoke  of 
strange  things.  Her  weakened  brain  sought  to 
grapple  with  the  threads.  Why  did  Richard 
Watts  come  there  ?  Why  had  Edmond  not 
been  to  the  house  ?  Ah,  she  remembered.  That 
dreadful  night  of  farewell  —  the  threat,  almost  the 
curse  upon  her. 

"  Has  Mr.  Watts  left  any  message  for  me  ?  " 
was  her  next  question. 

"  That  you  are  to  get  well,  my  child.  That  is 
the  message  of  us  all.  We  cannot  lose  Madame 
Helene's  daughter ;  we  are  not  going  to  lose  her. 
And  she  must  not  talk.  That  is  the  doctor's 
command.  Silence,  silence,  until  the  little  head 
is  well  again." 


"  If  Strasburg  Falls  "        301 

"  And  the  beautiful  soup !  Ah !  Monsieur 
forgets  the  beautiful  soup.  We  can  live  in  the 
cellars,  Madame,  when  we  have  the  soup  like  that. 
It  is  I  who  made  it  —  I,  Guillaumette.  Will 
you  not  taste  it,  Madame  — just  for  Guillaumette's 
sake  ?  " 

She  held  her  mistress  in  her  arms  and  began 
to  feed  her  as  a  little  child.  The  abbe  watched 
approvingly.  He  did  not  know  why  her  husband 
had  not  been  to  the  house.  The  Captain's  duty 
as  a  soldier  had  kept  him  from  the  city,  he  thought. 
And  so  he  spoke  of  Strasburg's  sufferings  in  a  low 
and  gentle  voice  soothing  as  a  lullaby. 

"Ah,  we  should  give  thanks  to  God  that  we 
have  even  the  cellars  of  our  house,  my  child. 
There  are  others  who  have  not  straw  to  cover 
them.  But  we  have  taught  France  her  duty,  and 
France  will  remember.  The  brave  General,  I  do 
not  know  how  to  find  words  to  speak  of  him. 
Day  and  night,  day  and  night  he  refuses  to  listen 
to  the  cowards.  We  are  a  city  of  fire  and  dust, 
and  yet  we  remain  a  city.  We  have  little  food 
to  eat,  yet  God  feeds  our  hearts.  And  we  shall 
resist  until  the  end,  though  there  be  not  one  stone 
upon  another.  Yesterday,  they  tell  me,  six  hun- 
dred shells  fell  upon  bastion  eleven.  Six  hundred 
shells  !  Think  of  it !  These  Germans  are  devils 
— the  house  of  God  even  is  not  sacred  to  them. 


302       The  Garden  of  Swords 

But  they  are  facing  a  brave  people,  my  child.  We 
know  how  to  suffer.  Even  the  women  do  not 
complain.  Ah !  God  be  thanked  for  the  brave 
women  who  give  us  their  prayers  to-day." 

Beatrix  seemed  to  listen  to  him,  but  found  no 
interest  in  his  words.  She  was  glad  when  he  left 
her  to  sleep  again,  but  no  sleep  rewarded  her  busy 
brain.  Line  by  line  her  own  story  came  back  to 
her.  She  was  alone,  then  !  Edmond  had  left  her 
forever.  She  would  never  know  his  kiss  again. 
He  deemed  her  unfaithful  to  his  country.  The 
punishment  of  her  folly  seemed  bitter  beyond 
words.  She  felt  as  some  outcast,  lacking  country, 
friends,  and  knowing  not  so  much  as  one  in  all 
the  world  who  would  speak  a  word  of  love  to 
her. 

Guillaumette  watched  at  her  bedside  that 
afternoon  and  told  her  many  things  in  fragments 
of  reluctant  gossip.  She  had  been  very  ill  after 
u  Monsieur"  left  the  house.  Few  buildings 

O 

remained  unharmed  in  the  Place  Kleber.  In  the 
northern  suburbs  of  the  city  the  people  lived  in 
their  cellars.  This  room  was  one  of  the  old 
vaults  under  the  presbytery  of  the  abbe's  church 
in  the  Rue  Nationale.  Richard  Watts  had  come 
to  their  house  when  she  was  ill,  and  had  insisted 
upon  her  removal.  The  abbe,  who  slept  in  the 
sacristy  of  his  church,  and  had  loved  "  Madame  " 


"  If  Strasburg  Falls  "         303 

as  one  of  his  own  children,  could  not  do  enough 
for  her.  There  were  many  in  Strasburg  to  con- 
dole with  Madame  Helene's  daughter  even  at  such 
a  time.  General  Uhrich  himself  had  called  at 
the  house.  No  one  knew  anything  of  the  story, 
except  that  she  was  very  ill,  and  that  the  abbe  had 
taken  her  there  for  safety.  They  had  done  all 
they  could  to  make  the  place  comfortable  —  but 
there  was  no  choice.  Upstairs  the  iron  death  was 
everywhere.  Children  had  been  killed  at  their 
mothers'  breasts.  The  great  library  of  Strasburg 
burned  still,  as  some  vast  flambeau  bidding  the 
Germans  to  look  upon  the  unyielding  heart  of 
the  city.  There  was  a  party  that  wished  to 
yield,  but  the  General  would  not  listen  to  it. 
Monsieur  Watts  said  that  the  General  was  a 
madman  who  had  been  weaned  on  pate  de  foie 
gras.  The  American,  Dr.  Forbes  —  ah,  how 
clever  he  was !  He  would  return  at  sunset, 
and  bring  Monsieur  Watts  with  him.  They 
came  together  always. 

Beatrix  heard  the  gossip  greedily.  Ten  days 
had  passed,  then,  since  Edmond  left  her.  She 
trembled  to  think  what  those  ten  days  might  have 
meant  to  Brandon.  Richard  Watts's  anxiety  to 
see  her  she  could  construe  only  as  some  desire  that 
she  should  have  news  of  her  friend.  Whether  it 
were  ill  or  good  news  she  dare  not  ask.  In  one 


304       The  Garden  of  Swords 

way  a  vague  sense  of  relief  succeeded  the  remem- 
brance that  Edmond  knew  her  secret.  She  did 
not  believe,  in  her  gentler  moods,  that  his  love 
for  her  could  not  brook  so  womanly  a  folly  as  that 
of  which  he  found  her  guilty.  He  would  come  to 
reason  when  he  had  reflected  upon  all  that  she  had 
told  him. 

Richard  Watts  presented  himself  at  the  house  at 
five  o'clock,  and  when  they  brought  his  message 
she  asked  eagerly  that  she  might  see  him.  It  was 
good  to  look  upon  that  burly  figure ;  good  to  hear 
that  cheery  English  voice  congratulating  her.  And 
he  had  so  much  to  tell  her. 

"And  so  the  little  passenger  is  getting  well 
again.  Bravo,  bravo  !  I  shall  have  rare  news 
for  old  Anne  Brown  to-night.  Eh,  young  lady, 
you  will  send  your  love  to  old  Anne  Brown  ?  " 

He  had  the  little  hand  in  his  for  a  moment  and 
pressed  the  burning  fingers. 

"  You  are  kind  to  come,"  she  said. 

u  Kind,  young  lady  —  why,  hark  to  that. 
Your  father's  oldest  friend  kind  to  come  and 
see  that  little  Beatrix  is  getting  well  again.  What 
nonsense !  " 

She  thought  upon  his  words. 

"  You  knew  my  father,  then  ?  " 

"  Ay,  better  than  them  all ;  knew  his  heart,  his 
very  soul.  Some  day  we  will  talk  of  it  —  not 


"  If  Strasburg  Falls  "        305 

now.  You  must  get  well  again  first,  and  have 
done  with  this  nonsense  about  Master  Brandon. 
Oh,  don't  be  anxious  about  him.  The  rogue  can 
walk  again,  almost  as  well  as  I  can." 

A  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her  lips.  She  told  him, 
as  shortly  as  she  might,  the  story  of  her  husband's 
return.  He  listened  with  grave  face,  which  could 
not  cloak  his  anxiety. 

"  I  feared  from  the  first  that  this  would 
happen,"  she  said.  "  Edmond  would  not  believe. 
He  chose  to  misunderstand  me.  He  has  not 
been  here  all  these  days.  He  threatened  Bran- 
don. It  is  a  relief  to  know  that  they  have  not 
met." 

Watts  feigned  to  laugh  at  the  idea.  His 
assumption  of  a  confident  indifference  was  none 
the  less  a  failure. 

"  Strasburg  cannot  hold  out  three  days,"  he 
said.  "  It  was  lucky  I  went  to  the  Rue  de 
PArc-en-Ciel  when  I  did.  We  bribed  their  own 
man  and  got  over  the  roofs  to  Dr.  Forbes's  house. 
He  has  been  attending  you,  you  know  —  a  right 
good  fellow,  though  he  was  born  in  San  Francisco. 
Brandon  is  in  his  house  now  —  about  the  last 
place  they  would  look  for  him.  The  American 
flag  will  protect  him.  When  the  city  falls,  men 
will  be  reasonable  again,  and  all  this  will  be 
forgotten.  We  must  wish  the  city  to  open  its 


306       The  Garden  of  Swords 

gates,  little  passenger.  That 's  the  only  chance 
for  all  of  us.  Meanwhile,  trust  me  to  keep  those 
two  fellows  apart.  I  '11  have  no  cut-throat  busi- 
ness, if  I  can  help  it.  What  are  they  righting 
about  ?  Devil  take  the  rogues  if  they  know.  And 
why  is  Dick  Hamilton's  daughter  lying  here  like 
a  pretty  spoiled  dove  in  a  cage  ?  Because  two 
fools  have  been  playing  the  fool's  game  together. 
But  we  shall  stop  that.  Trust  old  Richard  Watts 
and  the  Germans  who  make  the  music  at  the 
gates." 

Thus  he  sought  to  give  her  courage,  and  fear- 
ing to  excite  her,  he  left  her  with  an  echo  of 
his  own  self-reliance  in  her  heart.  She  knew 
that  she  had  one  friend  working  for  her ;  and 
when  she  slept  that  night  her  prayer  was  this  — 
that  the  gates  of  Strasburg  might  be  opened  to  the 
enemy. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE    LETTER 

SHE  slept  heavily  and  without  dreams.  Ex- 
hausted nature  drank  at  the  well  of  sleep,  and, 
thus  refreshed,  gave  her  new  gifts  of  strength 
and  thought  when  the  dawn  came.  She  had 
suffered  from  no  malady  but  malady  of  the  mind  ; 
and  now  that  the  crisis  was  past  and  all  the  long 
days  of  anxiety  ended  in  this  day  of  sure  calamity, 
her  mind  came  back  to  her  and  taught  her  to 
reason  as  she  had  not  reasoned  since  the  day  of 
Worth.  Calmly,  quietly  she  reckoned  with  her 
position.  There  were  facts  she  would  hide  no 
longer  from  herself — the  fact  of  her  estrange- 
ment from  France ;  of  the  pity  she  gave  to  the 
soldiers  of  France  when  pride  of  them  should 
have  been  her  impulse  ;  of  her  affection  for  the 
country  she  had  left  and  for  the  English  friends 
she  had  made  in  Strasburg.  That  affection  de- 
manded no  loosening  of  the  bonds  which  bound 
her  still  in  love  to  Edmond.  She  knew  that  her 
love  was  stronger  than  all  else,  just  as  it  was 
independent  of  all  else.  She  did  not  believe  that 
the  misfortunes  of  their  lives  were  irreparable. 


308       The  Garden  of  Swords 

Misfortune,  indeed,  should  be  to  them  the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  understanding  and  a  truer  comrade- 
ship. Edmond  would  have  need  of  her  when 
Strasburg  fell.  She  would  give  of  her  pity  a 
generous  offering. 

If  thus  she  could  reason  calmly,  none  the  less 
was  her  anxiety  unceasing.  The  very  doubt  as 
to  what  was  happening  to  those  she  thought  of 
in  that  city  of  fire  and  terror  aided  her  to  a 
recovery  of  her  bodily  strength.  She  rose  from 
her  bed  by  the  very  desire  to  rise.  The  week 
that  succeeded  her  recovery  was  a  week  of  ques- 
tions unceasing  to  those  who  visited  her  —  the 
abbe,  the  American  doctor,  old  Richard  Watts. 
They  evaded  her  questions  or  answered  them  to 
no  purpose.  Even  old  Watts  could  bring  her  no 
tidings  to  satisfy  her. 

"  You  are  to  get  better,  little  passenger,"  he 
said  always.  "  The  rest  is  my  business.  I  shall 
see  that  two  foolish  fellows  do  not  make  fools 
of  themselves  any  more.  Tell  yourself  that,  when 
you  think  about  it,  and  do  not  worry.  Say  that 
old  Richard  Watts  is  more  than  a  match  for 
them.  We  cannot  hold  out  much  longer  here, 
and  when  we  open  the  gates  common-sense  will 
come  in.  We  must  n't  expect  any  common-sense 
while  the  Germans  are  sending  a  thousand  shells 
a  day  as  a  pleasant  token  of  their  good  intentions. 


The  Letter  309 

But  it  will  come  by-and-by,  and  then  that  rascal, 
Edmond,  will  be  on  his  knees  to  you.  If  he 
does  n't  come  of  his  own  free  will,  I  '11  bring  him 
here  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck.  We  '11  laugh  at 
his  threats,  and  Brandon  shall  join  in.  Trust 
Brandon  to  keep  his  head  if  these  French  maniacs 
let  him.  He  's  at  the  American  consulate  now, 
and  I  don't  suppose  they  're  going  to  give  him  up. 
So  you  make  your  mind  easy,  little  Beatrix.  I  'm 
your  friend  if  you  '11  have  me  for  that.  God 
knows  it 's  something  to  have  the  friendship  of  a 
little  girl  like  you." 

She  thanked  him  from  her  heart. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  be  grateful,"  she  ex- 
claimed, holding  out  her  hand  to  him;  "as  if 
I  could  ever  forget  the  friend  who  saved  my 
friend's  life.  And  you  see  I  'm  well  again  already. 
I  shall  go  out  and  hear  about  things  for  myself 
to-morrow." 

"  Indeed,  and  you  will  do  nothing  of  the 
sort,  young  lady.  Go  out — the  little  passenger 
go  out,  when  the  shells  fall  like  hail  and  there 
are  dead  at  every  corner.  The  idea  of  it !  " 

"  But  you  have  come  out  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  count.  There  's  no  one  would 
miss  old  Dick  Watts.  If  I  smoke  a  few  pipes 
more  or  less,  it  does  n't  matter  much  to  anyone, 
you  be  sure." 


310       The  Garden  of  Swords 

"  It  would  matter  to  me." 

He  squeezed  her  little  hand  in  his  great  fist. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  there 's  news  for  old  Anne 
Brown.  The  little  passenger  cares.  And  because 
she  cares  she  won't  show  her  pretty  face  in 
Strasburg  until  the  gates  are  open.  I  may  say 
that,  young  lady." 

She  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

"My  husband  does  not  come — how  can  I 
remain  here  ?  " 

"  He  will  come  when  the  Germans  enter. 
Pity  is  much  to  a  man.  He  will  need  your  pity, 
then.  You  will  forgive,  and  he  will  forget  the 
rest." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  she  said 
very  earnestly,  "  How  I  wish  that  the  end  was 
to-day  !  " 

"  As  all  sensible  men  wish  it.  To-day  or  to- 
morrow, what  does  it  matter  ?  We  have  done 
enough  for  an  idea.  The  rest  is  a  cheap  love 
for  heroics." 

She  turned  to  him  smiling. 

"  You  will  never  love  France,"  she  said. 

"  I  love  it  with  your  love,  young  lady." 

She  was  silent,  for  she  knew  that  this  man 
read  the  truth  which  had  haunted  her  now 
many  a  weary  night  and  day.  No  longer  was 
it  possible  to  look  upon  herself  as  a  French- 


The  Letter  311 

woman  loyal  to  France  in  heart  and  thought. 
The  defeat  of  France's  army  had  changed  her  — 
perchance  had  drive*  her  to  that  very  pride  in 
Saxon  might  which  she  deplored  but  could  not 
modify.  The  belief  was  in  itself  an  infidelity  to 
the  man  who  loved  her.  She  tried  to  thrust  it 
from  her,  but  it  returned  every  hour  and  would 
be  heard.  "  You  are  an  Englishwoman,"  the 
voice  said.  Her  love  of  England  was  never  so 
great  as  in  that  hour. 

Richard  Watts  left  her  at  six  o'clock  that 
night,  and  at  seven  the  abbe  returned  from  one 
of  his  daily  visits  to  the  hospital.  He  came  in 
with  many  expressions  of  delight  at  the  progress 
she  was  making,  and,  much  to  her  surprise,  had 
a  letter  for  her  in  a  handwriting  she  did  not 
recognise. 

"  It  will  be  from  Monsieur,  no  doubt,"  the  old 
man  said,  as  he  handed  her  the  dainty  missive. 
"  These  Germans  allow  their  prisoners  to  write, 
they  say.  I  would  have  believed  no  good  of  them 
if  I  had  not  carried  the  letter  myself.  You  must 
tell  us  that  he  is  well,  Madame.  Ah  !  if  there 
could  be  roses  on  your  cheeks  when  he  comes 
home  again !  " 

She  did  not  contradict  him,  but  opened  her 
letter  with  trembling  hands.  There  was  no 
address  upon  the  paper  that  she  could  see,  nor 


312       The  Garden  of  Swords 

was  the  letter  signed.     She  read  it  with  swimming 
eyes  which    scarce  could    decipher    the   wavering 

lines. 

i 

"  At  dawn  to-morrow,"  the  letter  said,  "  in  the 
gardens  of  Laroche,  the  surgeon,  your  English 
friend  will  die." 

Beatrix  read  the  letter  twice,  then  crumpled  it 
in  her  hand.  The  abbe,  watching  her  curiously, 
saw  the  blood  rush  to  her  cheeks;  but  she 
did  not  gratify  his  curiosity.  When  he  had 
waited  a  little  while  and  knew  that  her  silence 
was  final,  he  bade  her  good-night  and  left  the 
room. 

An  hour  later  Guillaumette  ran  into  the 
darkened  church,  where  he  was  praying  for  the 
stricken  city,  to  tell  him  that  her  mistress  had 
quitted  the  presbytery,  and  was  gone  she  knew 
not  whither. 

"  She  has  left  us,  Monsieur,  she  who  is  so  ill. 
The  good  God  help  us  !  we  shall  never  see  my 
mistress  again ! " 


CHAPTER   XXX 

IN    THE    HOUSE    OF    LAROCHE 

BEATRIX  had  quitted  the  abbe's  house,  indeed ;  yet 
her  purpose  was  not  clear  to  her;  nor  did  she 
know,  as  she  crept  up  the  stone  stairs,  and  stood 
once  more  in  the  streets  of  the  city,  whither  her 
distress  should  carry  her,  or  to  what  end.  She 
must  prevent  her  husband  committing  this  crime, 
she  thought.  She  must  save  the  men  from  them- 
selves. God  alone  could  help  her  to  do  that. 

She  was  very  weak  of  her  illness  still,  and  she 
shivered  as  she  drew  her  cloak  about  her  and  stood 
gazing  up  at  the  wondrous  world  of  stars  above 
and  at  the  gaunt  shapes  of  the  mediaeval  houses, 
which  had  leaned  upon  the  abbe's  church  for  three 
centuries,  and  yet  could  conjure  up  the  romance 
and  colour  of  forgotten  ages.  There  had  been 
rain  all  day ;  but  the  air  of  evening  was  sweet  and 
fresh  upon  her  face ;  and  the  very  solitude  about 
her  gave  a  charm  to  the  sense  of  freedom  which 
was  beyond  all  her  experience.  Not  until  she  had 
walked  a  little  way  and  stood  where  she  could 
overlook  the  Place  Kleber,  and  the  ground  where 


314       The  Garden  of  Swords 

her  home  had  been,  did  her  mind  recur  to  the  dan- 
gers of  the  city,  and  to  the  stories  which  they  had 
told  her  in  the  haven  of  the  cellars.  But,  sud- 
denly, out  of  the  night  the  truth  came.  The 
northern  quarters  of  Strasburg  were  no  more.  A 
terrible  desert  of  rubble  and  ashes  and  fire  con 
fronted  her.  Distant  buildings  caught  the  quiv- 
ering iridescence,  and  were  incarnadined  with  the 
play  of  crimson  light.  Shells  of  houses  vomited 
flame  and  smoke,  and  brilliant  sparks  burning 
brightly  in  the  clear  night  air.  An  unceasing 
crash  of  artillery  was  the  horrible  music  of  the 
hour.  She  could  see  the  golden  paths  of  the 
destroyer  as  the  trail  of  falling  stars  bearing  a 
message  of  doom.  The  picture  was  grand  beyond 
any  her  eyes  had  looked  upon.  She  stood  spell- 
bound, unconscious  of  her  peril. 

Save  for  such  troopers  as  were  seeking  to  quell 
the  fires,  she  saw  no  one  in  the  streets  through 
which  her  journey  carried  her.  By  here  and  there, 
a  light  shone  in  a  cellar,  and  she  could  hear  the 
voices  of  those  who  lived  there.  A  priest  passed 
her  at  the  New  Church,  carrying  the  Host  to  the 
dying.  He  turned  curious  eyes  upon  her  as  she 
knelt,  but  did  not  speak  to  her.  A  little  way 
farther  on  a  group  of  men  with  lanterns  were  about 
a  great  waggon,  which  a  shell  had  struck  and  shat- 
tered ;  the  blood  of  the  dead  horses  still  flowed 


In  the  House  of  Laroche     315 

fresh  in  the  gutters.  She  sought  to  pass  un- 
observed ;  but  as  she  drew  near  a  terrible  report 
deafened  her,  and  the  whole  street  was  illumined 
by  a  blinding  flash  of  light.  She  heard  the  shouts 
of  the  men  as  they  ran  to  safety.  There  was  the 
thunder  of  falling  masonry,  a  choking  cloud  of 
dust  hiding  the  stars  —  then  darkness  intolerable. 
She  stood  alone  in  the  street,  and  when  she  could  see 
the  way,  she  ran  on  again  —  she  knew  not  whither. 

She  must  save  her  husband  —  must  save  Brandon. 
That  was  her  watchword  always.  Those  who 
had  befriended  her  must  not  commit  this  crime. 
She  had  guessed  that  the  malignity  of  Gatelet  dic- 
tated the  letter  which  she  had  received.  She  would 
defeat  that  malignity.  There  were  moments  when 
she  thought  of  going  to  Richard  Watts  again ;  but 
reflection  seemed  to  say  that  hers  must  be  the  voice 
to  save  Edmond  and  her  friend.  She  did  not  know 
how  it  was  that  her  footsteps  carried  her  uncon- 
sciously to  the  Rue  de  Kehl ;  but  thither  she  went, 
and  anon  found  herself  before  the  house  of  the 
American  Consul.  Brandon  was  there,  in  that 
house.  She  determined,  cost  what  it  might,  that 
she  would  hear  the  truth  from  his  own  lips. 

Many  minutes  passed  before  she  could  find 
courage  to  pull  the  great  brass  handle,  and  when 
she  did  so  the  sonorous  echoes  of  the  bell 
frightened  her.  But  the  man  who  opened  the 


316       The  Garden  of  Swords 

door,  after  he  had  spoken  a  few  words  to  her, 
admitted  that  she  could  see  Mr.  North.  A 
moment  later  Brandon  himself — the  old  Brandon 
—  with  his  quiet,  calm  voice,  was  reasoning  with 
her  as  he  would  have  reasoned  with  a  child. 

u  Beatrix,"  he  said  gently,  "  could  you  not  have 
trusted  me  ? " 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered, 
Brandon,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and  this  —  my  God  ! 
tell  me  that  it  is  not  true  ?  " 

He  made  a  little  gesture  of  indifference. 

"  No  harm  will  come  to  Edmond.  I  swear  it 
on  my  honour.  He  has  acted  with  little  sense  — 
but  that  is  the  habit  of  the  French  soldier.  He  is 
a  good  man  at  heart,  and  will  love  you  none  the 
less  when  this  is  over  — " 

u  Promise  me,"  she  exclaimed  desperately,  "  you 
will  not  go  to  Laroche's  house  to-morrow." 

"  If  I  go,  it  will  not  be  to  make  a  fool  of  myself." 

"But  he  will  kill  you." 

"  I  must  trust  to  the  help  of  a  befriending 
Providence.  There  will  be  some  way  out,  and  I 
shall  find  it.  He  must  listen  to  me.  He  is 
listening  to  bur  friend  Watts  at  this  moment. 
Possibly  there  will  be  a  method  which  does  not 
occur  to  either  of  us  at  this  moment.  In  any 
case,  no  harm  will  come  to  him." 

"  But  you  —  how  can  I  leave  you  to  the  alter- 


In  the  House  of  Laroche     317 

native  ?  Oh,  my  God,  if  he  should  kill  you, 
Brandon  !  " 

He  started  and  looked  at  her  closely.  She  did 
not  know  that  such  words  were  sweeter  than  life 
to  him.  His  voice  was  colder  and  discouraging 
when  next  he  spoke. 

"  It  will  not  come  to  that,"  he  said.  "  One 
man  with  a  sword  in  his  hand  does  not  fight  an- 
other with  a  medicine  bottle.  I  am  still  half  an 
invalid.  Besides,  is  there  no  hope  of  common- 
sense  ?  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  the  tears 
trickled  through  her  fingers.  The  sacrifice  which 
this  man  contemplated  was  not  to  be  hidden  from 
her.  He  would  give  his  life  that  her  husband 
might  live. 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  she  exclaimed  earnestly. 
"  Brandon,  have  I  no  right  of  our  friendship  ? 
You  will  not  meet  my  husband  to-morrow." 

He  shrugged  his   shoulders. 

"  Would  you  have  them  say  that  the  English- 
man is  a  coward,  Beatrix  ?  " 

The  answer  frightened  her.  The  culminating 
hour  of  her  suffering  was  there  in  that  room. 
Her  tears,  falling  fast  upon  her  white  face,  seemed 
to  burn  Brandon's  fingers.  He  would  have  given 
his  life  to  bring  laughter  to  those  eyes  he  loved. 

"  Let   us    be    sensible,"    he   continued,  with    a 


3i 8       The  Garden  of  Swords 

great  effort  to  control  himself.  "  What  can  I  do  ? 
What  other  course  is  there  ?  If  your  husband 
will  make  it  a  question  of  my  honour,  am  I  to  let 
that,  the  honour  of  an  Englishman,  be  the  sport 
of  every  fool  in  Strasburg  ?  Of  course,  I  must  go. 
The  rest  is  in  God's  hands.  I  shall  do  my  best 
for  your  sake  and  my  own." 

He  could  give  her  no  other  answer.  She  might 
take  from  the  house  nothing  but  this  truth,  that 
the  destiny  of  him  for  whom  she  would  have  made 
the  ultimate  sacrifice  was  in  God's  keeping. 

"  I  shall  never  forget,  Brandon  —  never  to  my 
life's  end,"  she  said  as  she  left  him. 

"  I  trust  there  will  be  nothing  to  remember, 
Beatrix.  You  are  the  brave  one  to  come  through 
the  city  at  such  a  time ;  you  must  go  back  at  once. 
I  ought  to  send  one  of  our  fellows  with  you,  but 
under  the  circumstances  I  suppose  it 's  best  not. 
Perhaps  Watts  will  bring  good  news  before  morn- 
ing. If  you  are  going  to  his  house  now,  you  will 
hear  what  he  has  to  say  and  might  let  me  know. 
I  can't  believe  that  your  husband  is  serious  —  it 
would  be  too  grotesque." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  at  the  door  she 
stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  his  hand. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  left  the  house  and 
Stood  again  in  the  silent  street,  whose  roof  was  of 


In  the  House  of  Laroche     319 

golden  fire  mingling  with  the  stars,  and  the 
radiance  of  the  mirrored  flames  on  many  a  spire  and 
many  a  dome.  Nothing  now,  either  of  the  scene 
or  of  her  own  peril,  mattered  to  her.  The  jibes 
of  besotted  gunners,  the  warnings  of  officers  who 
passed  by  to  the  citadel,  the  deafening  roar  of  guns, 
even  the  dead  in  the  streets  —  she  went  on  heed- 
less of  these  things.  Brandon  was  to  give  his  life 
for  her  lover's.  He  would  die  at  dawn,  because 
he  had  been  her  friend.  Well  she  knew  that 
Edmond  would  not  heed  the  words  which  could 
be  spoken.  That  birthright  of  fallacy,  which 
made  of  honour  a  god,  was  far  above  logic  or 
reason.  He  would  kill  Brandon  for  honour's  sake. 
This  intolerable  thought  of  one  man's  sacrifice 
for  another  man's  folly  was  the  culminating  dis- 
tress of  that  strange  hour.  While  she  told  herself 
again  and  again  that  such  a  sacrifice  must  never 
be,  the  futility  of  her  resolutions  appeared  in  a 
clearer  light  with  every  step  she  took.  The  gulf 
between  Edmond  and  herself  was  never  to  be 
bridged  again.  She  knew  that  she  could  neither 
hope  nor  believe  in  France  as  she  had  hoped  and 
believed  on  the  day  when  her  destiny  sent  her  to 
the  Niederwald.  One  by  one  these  events  recurred 
to  her  imagination  —  the  occasion  of  their  picnic, 
the  call  to  arms,  the  dreadful  day  of  battle,  the 
weakening  of  the  cords  of  faith,  the  lost  glory  of 


320       The  Garden  of  Swords 

the  army  which  was  to  protect  the  children  of 
France.  How  few  were  the  weeks  since  she  had 
regarded  her  lover  as  one  sent  to  her  unmistakably 
to  be  that  link  in  the  chain  of  her  love  which 
death  alone  might  break.  And  now !  Doubt, 
suspicion,  separation,  above  all,  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  crime,  were  her  fruits  of  war.  She 
saw  that  they  were  fruits  surpassing  all  agony  of 
death  and  battle,  and  even  the  pity  of  the  chil- 
dren's grief. 

Until  this  time,  and  the  hour  was  now  eleven, 
there  had  been  no  thought  in  her  mind  of  making 
such  an  appeal  to  her  husband  as  she  had  made  to 
Brandon.  Her  common-sense  told  her  that  her 
own  concern  for  the  life  of  her  English  friend 
would  be  a  new  provocation  to  the  crime. 
Edmond  would  rejoice  in  her  distress.  It  would 
prompt  him  to  find  a  better  excuse,  a  new  insult  to 
his  honour.  Turn  where  she  would,  she  could  see 
no  way.  Often  there  came  to  her  lips  the  prayer 
that  the  gates  of  Strasburg  might  be  opened  to  the 
enemy  before  the  sun  should  shine  again  upon  that 
scene  of  desolation  and  of  death.  Defeat,  the 
shame  of  France,  alone  could  turn  the  peril  from 
her  doors.  She  knew  well  that  the  end  could  not 
be  distant ;  that  whatever  heroism  the  brave  Uhrich 
still  might  contemplate  could  but  postpone  the  in- 
evitable hour  when  the  white  flag  must  fly  from  the 


In  the  House  of  Laroche     321 

citadel,  and  the  roar  of  the  guns  be  heard  no  more. 
Perchance  the  superb  heroism,  the  unbroken 
courage,  the  splendid  faith  of  Strasburg  would, 
under  other  circumstances,  have  won  back  that 
allegiance  to  France  of  which  war  had  robbed  her. 
But  the  thought  of  to-morrow  ever  prevailed  above 
such  a  hope  as  that.  Brandon  would  die  at  dawn. 
He  would  pay  the  penalty  of  his  friendship  for  her. 
She  could  pray,  in  truth,  that  the  gates  of 
Strasburg  might  be  opened,  but  there  was  no  mes- 
sage of  the  night  to  answer  her  prayer.  Every- 
where now  the  people  sought  the  fitful  sleep  which 
the  cellars  and  the  caverns  of  the  city  might  give 
them.  Those  that  were  abroad  battled  anew  with 
the  raging  fire  and  the  smoking  debris.  She  seemed 
to  be  imprisoned  in  some  Inferno,  where  the  air 
was  hot  and  stifling,  and  the  voices  were  the  moan- 
ing shells  and  the  crash  of  the  great  guns  and  the 
thunder  of  houses  falling,  or  of  the  fire's  new  vic- 
tory. Nothing  affrighted  her ;  she  passed  in  and  out 
to  the  dangerous  places  ;  among  the  groups  of  black- 
ened pompiers ;  through  companies  of  artillerymen  ; 
by  scenes  of  death  and  agony  ;  yet  was  not  witness 
of  the  men  or  of  their  work.  If  Strasburg  would 
surrender !  If  the  end  would  come  !  If  she  could 
save  Brandon  !  Never  had  she  known  such  suffer- 
ing of  suspense,  never  such  a  burden  of  excitement 
and  of  fear.  The  night  was  as  a  year  of  terror 

21 


322       The  Garden  of  Swords 

enduring.  She  prayed  to  God  that  she  might  not 
live  until  day  dawned. 

It  was  after  midnight  then,  and  she  knew  that 
she  had  been  walking  aimlessly,  without  destination 
or  desire  of  rest,  for  two  hours.  A  sudden  faint- 
ness,  the  due  of  her  illness,  warned  her  at  last  that 
she  must  seek  some  asylum  and  abandon  a  quest 
so  futile.  For  a  little  while,  she  rested  upon  a 
bench  at  the  door  of  a  deserted  cafe ;  but  when 
her  strength  came  back  to  her,  she  remembered 
the  promise  which  old  Richard  Watts  had  made, 
and  once  more  she  returned  to  his  house.  He 
met  her  at  the  door.  His  grave  face  betrayed  the 
tidings  of  which  he  was  the  bearer. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  you  for  the  last  hour, 
child,"  he  said  as  he  led  her  into  his  English 
room ;  "  they  have  told  you,  of  course  —  " 

"  They  have  told  me  —  yes,"  she  answered 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  husband  ?  " 

"Why  should  I  go?" 

"  Because  he  has  need  of  you." 

She  started  back  with  a  cry  of  terror. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  it  —  what 
do  you  hide  from  me  ? " 

"  I  hide  nothing.  It  is  best  that  you  should 
know.  I  thought  that  you  did  know  when  you 
came  here.  Your  husband  was  struck  by  a  frag- 


In  the  House  of  Laroche     323 

ment  of  a  shell  in  the  Broglie  to-night,  and  is  now 
lying  in  the  house  of  Laroche,  the  surgeon." 

For  an  instant  she  stood  with  eyes  wide  open 
and  hands  trembling  upon  her  breast. 

"  Take  me  to   Edmond,"   she  said. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

"  THERE    IS    NIGHT    IN    THE    HILLS  " 

IT  seemed  that  Strasburg  could  suffer  no  more; 
and  yet  she  continued  unyieldingly  to  suffer. 
Hours  became  days,  and  days  weeks,  and  still  no 
white  flag  floated  over  her  citadel ;  nor  were  the 
voices  of  her  brave  men  silent.  Down  below  in 
the  cellars  the  timid  wailed  and  cried  for  light  and 
bread.  Mighty  lanterns,  the  shells  of  her  great 
buildings,  gave  to  the  night  the  crimson  beacons 
which  seemed  dyed  with  the  very  blood  of  the 
dead.  Faint  hearts  told  each  other  that  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  the  theatre,  the  New  Church,  the  Gov- 
ernor's house,  the  Library,  were  but  ashes  upon 
barren  wastes.  Two  thousand  dead  the  city 
mourned ;  and  yet,  mourning  them,  prepared  to 
die.  The  ultimate  woe  of  despair  was  upon  a 
helpless  people.  Their  homes  crumbled  to  the 
very  dust.  The  open  grave  became  their  offering 
to  France  and  the  children  of  France. 

It  had  been  upon  the  nineteenth  day  of  Sep- 
tember that  Edmond  Lefort  fell  wounded  by  the 
fragment  of  a  shell  at  the  very  door  of  the  surgeon 
Laroche's  house  in  the  Broglie.  He  lay  in  the 
same  house  upon  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 


"There  is  Night  in  the  Hills  "  325 

seventh ;  and  those  about  him  knew  that  he  was 
dying.  Since  the  grey  light  of  dawn  winged  into 
that  room  of  death  and  shone  upon  the  haggard 
face,  swathed  still  in  its  bloody  bandages,  his  little 
wife  had  not  moved  from  his  bedside  nor  released 
his  hot  fingers  from  her  own.  She  sat  there  as 
some  angel  of  sleep  comforting  him.  The  tragedy 
of  the  weeks  bygone,  the  hope,  the  fear  of  them 
had  vanished  as  the  mists  of  an  autumn  night. 
No  other  name,  no  other  voice,  no  other  scene 
stood  between  her  and  her  lover  now.  Clinging 
as  to  some  supreme  faith  in  the  God  who  had 
given  her  love,  she  could  not  believe  that  the  su- 
preme calamity  was  at  hand.  Edmond  was  dying, 
they  said.  She  would  not  hear  them. 

He  lay  upon  a  soldier's  bed,  a  curtain  shielding 
his  eyes,  one  white  hand  clasping  the  hot  fingers 
which  had  never  left  his  own ;  the  other  stroking 
the  coverlet  as  men,  sick  unto  death,  will  in  the 
last  hours  that  life  may  give  them.  Once  only 
since  fate  struck  him  down  had  he  opened  his  eyes 
to  the  sunlight,  or  recognised  who  it  was  that 
stood  with  him  at  the  end ;  but  that  instant  of 
recognition  was  never  to  be  forgotten.  Beatrix 
remembered,  through  the  years,  the  voice  that 
uttered  her  name  then  in  a  transport  of  pity  and 
love.  What  a  light  of  joy  was  on  his  face ! 
Again  and  again  he  whispered  the  beloved  name 


326       The  Garden  of  Swords 

as  she  covered  his  hands  and  face  with  kisses 
which  were  the  gift  of  her  very  heart.  No  other 
came  between  them  then.  The  angel  of  death 
had  linked  their  souls,  to  be  forever  thus  through 
the  infinite  ages  of  their  being. 

She  knew  that  he  was  dying,  though  she  sought 
to  hide  the  truth  from  herself.  The  stertorous 
breathing,  the  pallor  of  the  face,  the  burning 
hands,  the  cold  sweat  of  night  upon  his  forehead,  the 
agony  even  of  the  conscious  moments,  were  there 
perpetually  to  warn  her  of  that  instant  when  the 
heart  would  beat  no  more,  and  the  day  of  suffering 
draw  to  its  end.  But  the  flame  of  her  hope  was 
not  to  be  quenched.  She  reeled  before  the  power 
of  death,  and  yet  would  not  admit  that  power. 
The  God  who  had  sent  her  to  Worth  to  know  the 
whole  blessedness  and  sweetness  of  a  young  girl's 
love  would  not,  could  not  take  this  love  from  her. 
She  clung  to  her  husband  with  an  intensity  born 
of  frenzy  and  despair.  She  longed  to  lift  him 
from  the  bed,  and  to  say,  "  Arise  and  live."  She 
prayed,  as  she  had  never  prayed  before,  that  he 
might  be  given  back  to  her.  Through  that  long 
September  day,  that  day  when  Strasburg  at  last  was 
to  cry  for  the  mercy  it  had  not  wished,  she  never 
stirred  from  his  bed,  nor  ceased  to  listen  for  the 
words  that  should  be  to  her  precious  beyond  all 
the  words  their  love  had  spoken. 


"  There  is  Night  in  the  Hills  "  327 

There  had  been  a  cessation  of  the  cannon  early 
in  the  afternoon,  but  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
reasons  which  brought  the  unaccustomed  silence 
and  filled  the  streets  again  with  those  who  had 
almost  forgotten  the  sun  and  the  life  of  day.  In 
the  darkened  room  she  heard  her  lover  talking,  now 
of  Worth,  now  of  their  happy  days  in  the  Nieder- 
wald  ;  again  of  the  battle  and  of  the  death  ride  there. 
Once,  indeed,  he  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow 
and  seemed  to  call  for  his  comrades ;  but  the  next 
moment  he  had  fallen  back  with  a  froth  of  blood 
upon  his  lips.  An  anger  against  the  destiny  which 
thus  could  make  him  suffer  closed  her  lips  and 
dried  her  eyes.  She  would  save  him  —  she 
would  close  the  open  grave ;  they  should  not  take 
him  from  her.  In  her  distress  she  even  withdrew 
her  hand  from  his,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  once 
more  and  began  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Beatrix  —  it  is  you,  little  Beatrix." 

"  It  is  I,  dearest  husband." 

"  You  have  forgiven  me,  my  wife  —  ah,  God, 
how  precious !  —  you  have  forgiven  me  that  I 
made  you  suffer  ?  " 

She  knelt  at  his  bedside,  and  burying  her  face 
upon  the  outstretched  arm  she  made  anew  the 
child-wife's  vow  that  he  had  heard  in  the  golden 
1  days  of  old  time. 

"  I  love  you  —  Edmond  —  I  love  you  —  I  love 
you." 


328       The  Garden  of  Swords 

The  white  hand  rested  upon  her  hair ;  the  eyes 
of  the  man  were  looking  over  the  city  he  had 
loved. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  love, 
Beatrix,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  that 
her  ears  must  almost  touch  his  lips ;  "  all  else  that 
we  live  for,  fame,  glory,  ourselves,  money  —  they 
are  nothing.  If  I  had  remembered  my  love  for 
you,  little  wife  —  if  I  had  remembered  —  " 

He  began  to  breathe  with  dreadful  rapidity. 
She  could  feel  his  heart  throbbing  beneath  her 
cheeks. 

"  Dearest, "  she  said,  "  let  us  remember  nothing 
but  the  days  to  come.  Oh,  I  will  love  you 
always,  always  —  I  have  none  but  you,  Edmond." 

He  sought  to  kiss  her  lips,  but  could  not  raise 
his  head  from  the  pillow. 

"  I  do  not  fear  death,"  he  said  very  slowly,  "  if 
one  might  sleep  upon  the  field  with  a  cloak  about 
the  face  and  a  sword  in  the  hand.  The  grave  is 
all  dark.  You  will  not  let  them  lay  me  in  the 
grave,  Beatrix." 

"  Oh,  Edmond  —  oh,  for  God's  sake  —  how 
can  I  bear  it  ?  " 

"You  will  come  to  me,  little  wife.  I  shall 
hear  your  voice  in  the  loneliness  of  death.  For 
that  we  love  and  are  loved.  Not  to  be  alone 
through  the  eternal  night !  Ah,  if  you  will  re- 


"  There  is  Night  in  the  Hills  "  329 

member  then,  beloved,  when  there  is  none  to  hear 
and  my  eyes  are  blinded  !  Ah,  if  you  will  come 
to  me  in  that  sleep !  I  have  no  right  to  ask.  All 
that  I  would  live  for  is  here  in  my  arms.  They 
shall  not  take  you  from  me,  Beatrix  —  if  you 
forgive !  " 

A  great  silence,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of 
tears,  reigned  in  that  abode  of  death.  Without, 
in  the  awakened  streets,  great  throngs  flocked  to 
the  cathedral  and  the  citadel.  The  white  flag 
floated  above  the  city.  The  agony  of  Strasburg 
was  no  more,  To  the  dying  man,  the  silent 
cannon  sent  the  last  message  of  life. 

u  Beatrix,"  he  said,  "  you  will  go  to  England 
with  Richard  Watts.  I  wish  it.  Remember  that 
I  have  loved  you,  little  one.  Think  well  of  my 
country.  Think  well  of  France.  If  our  child 
should  live,  tell  him  of  Worth.  If  my  son  —  ah, 
God !  why  do  I  speak  of  him  ?  " 

He  fell  back  exhausted  and  closed  his  eyes. 
For  many  minutes  no  word  was  spoken.  When 
he  uttered  her  name  again,  she  knew  that  it  was 
for  the  last  time. 

u  There  is  night  in  the  hills,"  he  said ;  "  give 
me  light,  oh  God,  that  I  may  see  her  face  again." 


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